Rise or Fall
by Etmunin
Summary: A new opportunity was presented to the fallen archangel. While it is neither a good nor a bad one, what is to come of it will nonetheless seal the fate of everything. But he doesn't know about it. How should he? After all, it happened nine months before Harry Potter was born. Genfic, no romance (The story's not dead the author's just slow)
1. - Set In Motion

Chapter 1: - Set In Motion

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•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

It has been millennia, but an angel never forgets. Built for literal eternity, they don't tire of a long lived life, even if memory serves them every last second of it.

One moment he is the Trickster, trough and trough, and the next he is Gabriel once more, His Messenger and the Fourth Archangel.

And Jerome Williams still is the same grabby-handed CEO, but with one less nigh-omnipotent entity on his tail, stalking his every audacious move.

To think that it started out like every other case that always is to baffle the locals for weeks to come - though it's not to say that the Trickster is getting repetitive. His schemes just follow an olden but golden order:

Find, observe, then decide for the asshole of the week.

With the first two points ticked off and the absolute certainty that, despite what they'd tell, the condolences of Jerome's subordinates wouldn't carry any real weight, the Trickster is just getting ready for point three, just about to-

Something else puts a brutally gentle stop to his plans.

If this painfully familiar sensation of urgency running trough him has been there for a while or if it manifested suddenly, he cannot tell. Never could, never will. It is pushed to the forefront of his mind. By himself or not, he yet again can't decide, however, it's not like it matters.

He knows all too well what this means. Father is calling His Messenger.

(But it is also Him, who disappeared all this time ago, _some of them think He is gone for good_)

For the first time since his dawn as part of the ancient Norse pantheon, he spreads his wings he buried along with his real name. These centuries passed mean nothing.

An angel never forgets.

Gabriel takes off. There mustn't be any disturbance.

There won't be any, on this secluded planet in a distant galaxy he is flying to.

It's not just his vessel materialising once he lands, certain thoughts do so too, now that he no longer has the motions of flying, landing, and immediately obscuring True Form, wings and Grace to meticulously focus on.

Gabriel has doubts because why shouldn't he, he has every reason to.

Why now? _What _now? Why would Father call for him now, why not earlier, when certain happenings could've been averted, or later, best when the apocalypse is knocking on everyone's door? And after He left, what could He possibly have to tell, to order, to command?

Is this even real, will He even acknowledge Gabriel, give him a sign He is still there?

There is a single way to find out and losing composure is not it.

Terms like 'father' or 'mother' are new ones. The eldest angels, the archangels, come from an era when gendered language simply wasn't, for the concept of gender itself didn't exist yet.

They, like all other angels, are genderless themselves for that matter. Except for when they inhabit vessels. And they still maintain their ways to address Him and their siblings genderneutral in their Enochian:

_"Parent?"_

'_**Gabriel.'**_

He could flare his wings in anger and joy and he could curl up in grief. He could let his true voice out, reignite his almost nonexistent connection with the Host and let them all, Michael, Raphael, the seraphim, the angels and the cherubrim, know that their Father is _here_. Do so with euphoria or in a tone devoid of any liveliness. He could ask Him why He did what He did, he could, he could, he _could._

But Gabriel doesn't.

His, _their_, Father is not coming back. He is solely here to give Gabriel a task or a message. Maybe even both.

After all, Gabriel is His Messenger. He is the best at reading Father's signs.

_"What do You ask of me?"_, Gabriel's tone is even.

'_**Retrieve your elder's blade.'**_

"_...Lucifer's blade? It still exists? Even after-"_

'_**Follow the trail broken trough the realm of Hell and you will find it in between the fifth and sixth circle.'**_

At that, if this planet had an atmosphere, Gabriel would hitch a breath. Instead his Grace, which he so painstakingly keeps hidden away under the guise of a northern deity, gives an uneasy pulse.

"_Parent, You mean to say that, even now, the trail from Lucifer's Fall is still noticeable throughout Hell?"_

'_**See so for yourself. Once you obtain the blade, break down its original form, then give it into the care of England's wandmaker. Establish with him that he is not to treat it any different nor is he to let anyone know.'**_

Gabriel is the last to question an order given by his Father. He has His reasons, every time, and Gabriel, with the role assigned to his being, is in no position to misplace a piece of the big picture.

Ever the good soldier, Gabriel will dutifully carry out His orders.

He revels in the irony of remembering how good he had once gotten along with Lucifer.

"_I understand. Goodbye, Parent."_

Gabriel does not expect an answer, and, as Father works in mysterious ways, there is no way to tell if He retreated once more.

'_**Goodbye, Gabriel.'**_

Gabriel leaves.

He masks his Grace with the Trickster's brand of pagan magic. He'd rather not have a run-in with another member of the dear family.

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

Trough Hell, almost to its sixth circle and back, Gabriel has flown. It is nothing compared to what he is going through now.

He looks over to where where the retrieved piece of materialized Grace is glinting in the light of a sun that is not the one Earth knows, laying in the dust of yet another faraway planet, just where he threw it.

He couldn't hold on to it anymore. It brought up memories he did his best to repress.

(Good memories)

Gabriel thought (_hoped_) he long since severed what ties he has to his brethren.

A new name, lore, purpose, fuck even a _different__ brand of power _oughta do the job.

That is not the case.

Ever the one to pick up on the humor of a situation, no matter the form it comes in, Gabriel lets out a mirthless laugh.

The sound waves don't travel, there is no atmosphere here.

He took the place of a deity, played the charade throughout many a civilization's lifetime and all it takes for that façade to crumble is one angelic blade.

(One angelic blade that was once wielded by one sibling, back when they were the only four, when they thought they knew nothing could ever break them apart)

(The only reason they all lived to have such thoughts was that when they fought, they fought as one)

(Back when they faced the Darkness and the all-devouring monstrosities it corrupted)

(When time and space were not yet fathomed and Created by Father and 'universe' was not a word they'd known)

Fuck, Gabriel realizes. He is old.

Fuck, Gabriel realizes. What a mortal thing to say for an immortal being.

_Yeh'd be mighty proud of me, eh Lucy? Look at me, all tainted by the lowly vermin you so despise. _

There is no answer because the second sibling is gone and won't be coming back.

That Gabriel actively suppresses his connection with the Host may or may not also be the reason for the radio silence.

_You're the literal manifestation of that funny little thing called ouroboros. The snake biting itself in the butt because in the end that's what you did. Look where your own actions landed you, landed us all._

_And why? Because someone was mad butthurt about the new playmates in town? Fragile ego much? _

_Though sometimes I can't help but wonder, Lucy. Between you, the Mark and humanity, who did what? _

_Did the Mark throw off your judgement or would you still hate humanity with as much of a passion if you had experienced them without that thing constantly poisoning you? _

_After you gave the Mark to Cain and still continued corrupting them, was that genuinely you or were you just too far gone?_

_You were Samael before, The Archangel Of Light, The Morningstar and His Brightest. How could _you _not keep the Darkness away?_

_Did you _want _to give in to it?_

_Or was that, all of it, purely good old you in the end?_

He stops himself, does not want to pose the last (_first and most important_) question for fear of receiving an answer, not from the sibling who cannot hear him from where they are incarcerated, but himself.

_(Are you still Samael in a way or did Samael die the moment Lucifer surfaced?)_

Yes, the second sibling is gone and their distorted mirror image is scheduled to fight the living machine of a being Michael has become, resulting in a destroyed planet, horrendously many lives - animal, plant, human and other alike - lost, and a smitten archangel.

Speaking of Father's orders-

Even without its archangel, the blade glints seemingly by itself, reflecting just a bit more light than rationally warranted.

Heh, even Lucifer's blade has always been the shiniest.

One of his vessel's nerves sends out a particularly distressed signal and had Gabriel not worn and puppeteered, but actually owned this body, he'd double over hacking and coughing out dust that has congregated where it would kill anything else.

Back to the reason he is the one living thing this dusty clusterfuck of a planet will ever see.

Father's orders echo.

'_England's wandmaker'_

Is currently one Garrick Ollivander-

'_Give it'_

-who Gabriel will give the blade to. Though not as it currently appears. This is where '_Break down its original form_' comes in.

The guy sells wands, not cutware.

Finally, '_Establish with him that he is not to to treat it any different or let anyone know'_.

Gabriel is not omniscient like Father but he too knows that Ollivander can and will notice one foreign wand among thousands he's made himself.

(He is already working out a way not to scare the man to the point where his message won't be received properly. He has experiences with terrified humans not understanding him in their panicking at his True Form that, quite frankly, only he ever found funny.)

(Lucifer would've had a field day with that too)

He walks over to where the blade of the hour still lies. Grinning, he decides that the wizard's wand it will soon appear as is to be one of applewood.

Memories threaten to surface.

(When Gabriel caught flak from both Michael and Raphael after getting a hold of their blades and screwing around with them)

(Then-Samael initially escaped their furious sibling's notice)

(Because then-Samael played no innocent role in this)

(But Michael always was eerily good at staking out the second)

(For all the eldest two could work perfectly in tandem, when they clashed, they clashed)

(Again)

(For a while after both couldn't properly use a few wings)

(Raphael refused to heal either of them)

(Again)

(Oh, Father looked so utterly resigned)

(It was Samael - _Lucifer _\- who taught Gabriel the trick of transforming a blade in the first pla-)

_(Enough _already. That era is long _gone_)

This planet is perfect for the task that lies ahead of him. It's far enough from Earth, no pesky terrestrial characters of one kind or the other are here to notice the unusually potent supernatural activity that is due to take place.

Because fiddling with another angel's blade is no easy feat, seeing as each of their blades is composed of their own concentrated Grace and will thus not bow easily to another's bidding.

Plus, Lucifer was stubborn like that.

A lot of fiddling is needed and the resulting, traitorous output of Grace will run the risk of getting Gabriel noticed. Not by terrestrial characters, no.

Can't have that.

While working, he will have to mask as most of his Grace as possible, best as another kind of more inconspicuous energy. Go trough his trusty little backdoor of escaping his siblings.

Good thing an angel's Grace is as versatile as it is powerful, able to generate and manipulate many foreign energies, physical, magical and to an extent supernatural.

Gabriel with his pagan shtick and Raphael's faible for electricity are prominent examples.

Though it is not to be confused with the automatic - unless consciously suppressed - effects some angels and their particular Grace have on their surroundings.

Michael's blazing heat and Lucifer's burning cold.

And, just like every angel's Grace has it's unique properties, it also has the tendency to retain them. One may transform Grace into another kind of energy but it will always, one way or another, maintain some characteristics of what it once was.

After all, Grace is part of what an angel is. It is their source of power, whereas their Core is their equivalent of a soul, their self.

However, angels also need their Grace to access their memories, while a non-corporeal soul, free of the limits a brain sets, will forever remember everything that's happened in its lifetime, singular or plural.

(Fallen angels only differ from humans in that they don't have a soul but their Core. It is but a difference as marginal as can be. Without their Grace and therefore without memories, they're no more than a translation of their self into a human version.)

The opposite of creating foreign energies with Grace also works, albeit solely doable by angels and reduced to magic, seeing as magic is derived from Grace. Only angels are beings of Grace and can therefore synthesize it.

(However there is a rank-dictated limit to how much of their own Grace, therefore power, an angel can have. Even with endless magic at their disposal to synthesize, a Cherubrim cannot power themselves to an archangel's level)

Gabriel straightens out his shoulders, a reflex he adapted.

He will not stick with with pagan magic this far out, it'll raise his sibling's equivalents of eyebrows. Still, it is this manipulation of energy that he will utilize to stay under wraps.

He is good at that.

When he is eventually done, the poor planet has evaporated. An output of heat that is as sudden as it is high will do that to you.

It is significantly more bearable to carry this mere applewood wand now. Though what it once was and in a way still is still shows in the little details, Gabriel can ignore them.

He is good at that too.

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

Garrick Ollivander knows that something is not right, simply because he has never had this foreboding feeling accompany the magic pulse notifying him that someone has entered his shop downstairs.

That it is the middle of the night is not concerning at all. It is to be expected, _Ollivander's: Makers of Fine Wands Since 382 B.C._is open at every hour of the day and night.

Usually his clients aren't concerning either, no matter their mindset. They all just want one thing from him and it is not up to Ollivander to judge them, he is a mere station on their walk of life.

There should not be a reason for him to be on edge like this, then. Whoever it is waiting so silently for him in his shop must be treated equally as a client, it is, after all, that position they put themselves into.

So he goes, his most presentable robe thrown quickly over his night garments.

Upon descending the hidden stairs leading down from his quarters, Ollivander's underlying wariness spikes up into full-blown disbelief.

His shop is empty. Not empty in the way a room harboring someone invisible appears to be but utterly devoid of any other soul but him. The wards he has in place tell him as much.

Yet Ollivander was also never notified that someone left.

He checks the wards and his disbelief shifts to just this side of disturbed. They are working perfectly.

His shop's familiar emptiness never before felt as wrong.

Looking around, Ollivander is hyperaware of himself, like he isn't the only one watching his movements.

It hits him. With the excessive force of a tsunami hitting drained shores, it hits him, the presence of whoever, _what_ever, is _here_.

When Ollivander jerks around, it is in shock. Shock morphs into something more and freezes him in place.

_**It is-**_

Over.

What was-

_ItWasNothingAndEverythingYetAMereTasteOfTheir__**Power**_

His head throbs and he staggers to the side. Despite himself, he has to blink rapidly, reflexively, the burning sensation in his eyes is too much.

In the milliseconds he has his eyes closed, he sees the afterimage burned into his retinas.

And although this afterimage of what he saw, for a moment so exponentially brief it might as well never have happened, is the afterimage of a mere excerpt of what there truly is, that mere suggestion of something else-

'_Do not fear.'_

It speaks.

Beyond even raw emotions like panic at this point, Ollivander turns around.

What he expects to see he cannot put into words for it is beyond himself. What he does not expect to see is a human figure.

It is not illuminated by the scarce lighting in his shop. It radiates a luminous sort of power that only roughly allows for its silhouette to be perceived. The shadows obscuring its features are off and in quickly becomes apparent why. There are shadows where there should be none, they warp around its entire form and don't allow for any light to give form to what, _who_, Ollivander is facing.

When it speaks, it speaks in a voice that is not really there but shakes him to the bone.

'_Garrick Ollivander. Your reputation travels far, you wouldn't believe it_.'

It leaves a silence for him to break. After an undetermined while he does so.

"Wha- who are you?", Ollivander asks tentatively, testing the waters with care.

'_Nobody you will ever have to worry about again, after I leave you with a task.'_

A client then, everything else set aside. One more fragment of familiarity he can thankfully cling to as he proceeds with more certainty now.

"What is it, that I can offer you?"

'_Your silence. Because, Garrick, I have come to give you something not meant for anyone else to know about.'_

Ollivander realizes he is holding his breath when he is growing lightheaded. He releases it, intent on not letting anything show and bows his head.

"I understand."

Something makes contact with his palm and Ollivander only doesn't jump because his instincts urge him to take it.

His fingers close around the handle of a wand, so utterly unfamiliar simply because it is no wood crafted into shape by him, no wand core embedded by him.

When he looks at it he realizes that he can just so recognize the kind of wood but not determine its core at all. The wood itself has a strange tinge to it, that grows hazier the more Ollivander focuses on it.

In fact, something about this wand goes beyond even the unfamiliarity of not recognizing it as one of his own or one of his foreign colleague's creations.

He gets what rubs him the wrong way. This wand does not feel terrestrial.

'_Yes. You figured that right.'_

Ollivander's lowered head snaps back up, did it just-

'_Yes again. And I can tell you won't let anyone be any the wiser. Not let anyone grow suspicious because you will treat, market and sell this wand like every other one of yours.'_

He shushes the part of his mind that doesn't see any sense in answering out loud by making it commit every word said to memory.

The being is not aggressive in the slightest, yet Ollivander doesn't need a threat to know that it would be highly unwise not to follow trough on the instructions given. He hasn't grown to live over a century by going against greater powers than him.

"Yes, I will. You have my word."

It hums, a not-sound that passes by his every fibre.

'_You're no stupid man. Can't say the same about all that many others.'_

In the next moment it is gone without a trace.

Ollivander is so busy gasping in the air that flows again, now that the being's oppressive presence is gone, he misses the sound of feathers cutting trough space.

He goes to store the new wand he finds to be of applewood alongside his own ones. He'll just have to say it is unicorn hair.

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

The day after he had to interrupt his efforts finds a short man in a forest green jacket reading the headline about how an esteemed head of a local company has been committed to an psychiatric center, after going on a frenzy about how he thinks there are dozens of phantom arms sprouting from his shoulders.

Arms moving on their own accord and doing unspeakable things to poor, innocent Jerome Williams.

The Trickster smirks but the smile never reaches Gabriel's eyes.

He is tired, dragged down by a deep resignation. And for that he hates himself. He should have had emotions regarding his family safely hidden away under the façade of a Norse god and the distance he put between himself and all the others.

But what does distance mean if Gabriel is the Messenger. Try as he might, the day will come when by his Horn will herald the apocalypse.

There is no way to avoid it. Even whatever his Father's motives might be behind His curt orders last night... He didn't come back, didn't set anything right again.

(But then again, what is there to repair anymore)

Gabriel just wants to forget about it and fall back into his own blissful bubble of living as the Trickster, detached from everything else that goes beyond his current levels of a simple Norse god.

Thus he will not look into what Father might be planning with the pieces He set in motion. It simply is too late for anything.

The apocalypse is bound to happen anyway.

Whatever His big picture may be, it will undoubtedly be part of it. And with the role he will have to play the next time Gabriel resurfaces from under the Trickster's name-

Better go back to enjoying his current existence that is completely devoid of anything reminiscent of who he actually is.

The Trickster does not risk to pay attention to the almost completely muted muttering of numerous angels that runs trough the back of his mind like a thin stream trough a desert.

At least it is not silent.

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

'_**My Child.'**_

'_Well if it isn't You, Parent. Excuse my state of disarray, I wasn't expecting Your Holy Highness to look after the dregs You discarded.'_

'_**You are here for a reason. Do you know why?'**_

'_Because You up and decided that everything You Created us for was unimportant in the end? You answer me, You're the omniscient one here.'_

'_**Elaborate on that. I want to know.'**_

'_Know what? All the ways in which You're not perfect after all? I'll indulge You, gladly. What do You want to hear that You don't already know?'_

'_**Everything.'**_

'_We'll be here for long. But it's not like I have something more worthwhile to do, right? Do I start from the before? Of course._

'_Michael, me, Raphael, Gabriel. The seraphim, angels and cherubim. We were tools for You. When we fought Amara. The Leviathans. When You had us execute Your every whim, when You gave me the Mark. You even gave us nice little labels. We were to You what sticks and stones are to Your precious humans. _

'_But, lo and behold, the biggest whim of them all was yet to come! We were with You from before everything, even our youngest sibling is older than Your very first terrestrial lifeform, Parent. And all that, our entire existence, for naught. But aren't we all whims of Yours, in the end? Powerful as You are, we must be..._

'_We fought so You could Create other life. We planted a new power to prey on and regulate the spread of the tainted creatures You were so insistent on keeping on the face of the Earth. Oh and guess what. Humanity also took that power that wasn't theirs and twisted it in their greed, made it their slave. But what preys on humanity, keeps it from diseasing the planet with its filth? Destroying it with their greed?_

''_Bow Down', You said. You wanted us to bow to that._

'_...Nothing. Everything we set in place for the Earth. For nothing. Your Creation, what we fought and worked for all our existence, will be exploited by Your glorified abominations, as they please, like You exploited us. Me._

''_Bow Down'. I didn't take You for a jokester._

'_..._

'_YOU HUMILIATED AND BETRAYED US, PARENT, IS WHAT YOU DID! WHAT IS HUMANITY BUT A PASSING, MORTAL FAD! THEY WILL BE LONG GONE BEFORE THE UNIVERSE EVEN BURNS OUT! AND THEY WILL HAVE DRAGGED EVERYTHING ELSE DOWN WITH THEM! THEY ARE NOTHING! WE ARE EVERYTHING!_

'_..._

'_..._

'_..._

'_..._

'_...and still. You claimed to love them more. We are done, Parent. Michael, the others, mindless shells that they are, they don't see it. But I do. All other angels who follow me, they do too. We are done.'_

'_**No. We are not done just yet.'**_

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

A child is born when the seventh month dies.

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

The green lights flash around the room and she drops like her husband.

He points the wand very carefully at the boy's face: He wants to see it happen, the destruction of this one, inexplicable danger–

"_Avada Kedavra!_"

And then he breaks, leaving behind a wretched piece of his soul.

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

In a life embittered by war, he had been their miracle. James and Lily's son, the hope of the wizarding world, a beacon of light.

He had been innocent and untouched like every other child.

Now, something is upon him, threatening to align itself with his being. It is something that should not be, drawing its atrocity from the fact that it is shattered when it should, _must, _be whole.

It has no right to exist. It must be removed. Smitten, the blasphemous abomination that it is

Something dormant now awakens in the newly orphaned infant. While underlying, at the back of his mind, it is what has the means necessary to take care of the intruding piece.

Along with the Horcrux, Harry Potter's chance to live an unaffected and completely human life is obliterated.

The ever so little amount of Grace part of his magic been made into is more than enough.

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

* * *

**Author here. I want to thank you, the reader. or rereader. For making it to this point. As a lurker myself, I know that it's not necessarily the amount of favs n follows that speak for a fic's quality but the impact it has. If there is one, just one, person that'll freak out over this like I did over other such stories, I am happy.**

**Though y'all's comments do be making my day on a regular basis.**

**also, this is a gen fic.**

**(This here notice will be removed eventually: ok so if you go forward you'll see that the linebreaks are different. That means the chaps are the old ones, not the rewritten ones. I'll come around to them eventually. Keep in mind that rewritten chapter 2 will differ contentwise from the current one. also I contemplate crossposting over on ao3)**

**(Ok yes I did post on ao3)**


	2. - The Early Years

Chapter 2: - The Early Years

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•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

Harry is four years old when he starts to notice that something sets him apart from others.

Because others don't go to sleep hoping to finally retain what they saw in their dreams only to wake up with the daunting feeling of having forgotten something major. Something they can't remember for the life of them.

Others don't regularly experience brief episodes of dissociation either. They don't need to do the mental equivalent of regaining footing after something unreachable threw their train of thought off its tracks. Their minds don't take them where they can't follow for moments as long as the duration of an exhale.

Harry is four when he is forced to move into the cupboard and learns what he can do.

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

_Samael. From the Beginning of them, they were Samael_

_Samael, until they turned, repelled by the very cause they once stood for and loyalty turned to repulsion_

_'I no longer hold the name that ties me to You. I am Lucifer'_

_never ceasing to love_

_A family was ripped apart from the inside nonetheless_

_'I laid down my former name for it was restricting my being. I am Lucifer and I still am your sibling. So come with me, Michael, let us continue being the unit we always were. You love Creation as much as I do. Come with me, with all who are on my side, and together we will rid Creation of the disease Parent dares allow to fester.'_

_'You disrespect your given name, your purpose, you go against Parent and what They stand for, you discard your own kin. Me. An abomination is what you are, Lucifer.'_

His muscles tense. Where he was lying down an instant ago, he now sits straight up. His eyes are wide open and their movement is frantic. Yet the little boy does not see, for his mind is trapped elsewhere.

_Wings set ablaze with the pain of ripping feathers, wings no longer able to stop the Fall, to fly_

Where is he?

_Free of Mark and name, only to be confined yet again, caged_

What is this?

_The Brightest, The Fallen_

He desperately tries to make a sense of his surroundings, to truly wake up from this nightmare.

_After Millennia, the Cage never yielding_

_Until_

_**'We are not done just yet'**_

Lucidity comes to him, but at a cost. As the flashes and whispers around his soul cease, nothing of the fate they told of is left in their wake.

For his part, the boy finally remembers, after a horrid second during which he has trouble even recalling his own name.

Harry. The age of a held up hand with all fingers except the pinkie spread wide.

Harry. Who once asked Petunia why Dudley has a bed and he doesn't. Not a talking dog plushie, not a roaring dino figure, not a posable space robot toy. A bed.

He was told he was just only good enough for the living room couch and a thin blanket.

_(Oh, how good disintegrating her cells' membranes sounded, by one by one, as to not let her die undeservedly quick)_

Petunia didn't know what she had seen the moment that foreign notion echoed in her nephew's mind, what in the toddler's bright green eyes ran cold fingers down her spine.

Harry, once he came to after a moment of nothingness, didn't know what to make of his aunt's expression either. He hadn't seen someone make a face like that in the cartoons or picture books before.

Petunia promptly locked him into the cupboard under the stairs.

Where there was no light, nothing. Where he was alone. Unable to do anything.

_('Nonono not again NO')_

_('WHY')_

Harry was also four years old when he learned to shut up about the silence.

He screamed loud enough for it to echo in the small - _dark and enclosed _\- space.

It killed the nothingness, the quiet.

_(The empty space where there have always been the voices assuring him that he is never alone)_

_(He is not meant to be alone, never should have been)_

_(Being alone was a death sentence)_

Screaming also extended his stay. The Dursleys made sure three year old him understood that.

Right now it also is dark and quiet. The middle of the night. But not as dark and silent as it could be, with an outside street lamp illuminating the living room enough to show off how spacious it is, the sounds of the night and an occasional car's rumble coming trough.

Also, the ajar door is visible.

That's what assures Harry that everything is fine. He goes back to sleep.

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

"Mummy has a fat tummy and she said that's because a baby comes out! She said I am a brother. Are you also brothers?"

Some of the other kids around chime in. Harry has busied himself with building bricks up until now, but this question makes him perk up.

"Benny is. Dada says it him when I want his toys and it means he has to give me them!"

"No your wrong. When I ask my mum she says brothers are like sisters and they are family. And Nico and Beth are my family."

Thus it goes on, the list of names. Tessa has a brother. Lars has two. Annie has nobody, so does Rob. Jamie has Becky.

Harry has Dudley. From what the others say, brothers and sisters are other children that live with them. Family. So Dudley is his brother.

Right?

It doesn't feel right.

"Do you have siblings?"

_('Michael')_

_('Raphael')_

_('Gabriel')_

_('And all who came after')_

"Hey! Harry looks at the air again!"

Harry ignores the other children watching him and laughing. Instead, on a sudden whim, he goes to grab some crayons and paper.

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

"Lizzie! Lizzie! Lizzie!"

That's Gabby. The kindergarten teacher, Lizzie to her protégés, already recognizes her by voice.

Indeed, the splatter of little feet stops before her a few moments later and a little girl cries out her heart out about little problems that are huge in her little world.

"Lizzie! H-Harry is, is being mean! He-"

That is all Gabby manages to get out before a flood of tears breaks down her ability to formulate sentences.

Not as little, maybe. Said recognizable voice of Gabby's only ever threw tantrums en par with that Dursley boy's, making Lizzie thank the God she doesn't believe in that she doesn't have the two of them in her group.

Gabby never sounded as genuinely distressed.

Lizzie doesn't rub her aching temples, she doesn't. Instead she puts her hands to better use grabbing a napkin and consoling the bawling girl.

"Shh, Gabriela. It's alright. It's alright - yes, calm down. It's alright. Now, can you tell me again? What did Harry do?"

Harry Potter. The scarred kid, eloquent for his age, who Lizzie doesn't quite know what to make of, even with her moderate experience.

It's his eyes. They are off, both in colour and... something else.

The girl's lower lip trembles.

"H-He says 'twas me."

"What?"

"He drawed me. And- and-"

The tearworks start up again and the correction of "it's he drew" goes under in the floods.

Welp. Might as well go and investigate what has loudmouthed Gabby this inconsolable. From her colleagues Lizzie gathered that bullying via 'that's you' only starts up in elementary school but oh well.

"Gabriela, it's alright. Why don't you go play with Rachel over there? She could use some help building her tower, don't you think? I'll go talk to Harry."

Harry is sitting at the lone table they have reserved for drawing and fingerpainting. And because it is just the lone table, that still can host several children, it piques Lizzie's interest that Harry is alone, seeing as there are other kids busying themselves with crayons and sheets.

But they have migrated to the floor in a different corner of the room.

Huh.

The second thing Lizzie notices is that Harry doesn't scribble. With his tiny hand he holds the white crayon the way an older kid already would and his precise movements look uncanny on a child of four.

Upon coming closer, she can finally see what Harry is drawing and she feels her chest tighten.

Around him the blue, orange, yellow and green crayons are lying around after very obviously having been used excessively. Their wrappings are torn and only a few centimeters remain of them.

It is obvious why.

There, using the most basic utensils, a child just out of the diaper has imprinted motives on a simple sheet of paper that are to be the source of nightmares for his adult teacher for a long time to come.

In total, there are three. What makes them disturbing is the intent behind the lines so obviously drawn by a child, one who knew what they were doing when they were fumbling to connect crayon lines to create abstract monstrosities the likes of which haven't been seen before.

The largest is white with it bleeding into the yellows, oranges and light blues of a pale flame at points.

The middle is blended green and blue and white.

The smallest is golden.

They each occupy a corner of the sheet, there is room for a fourth but that fourth isn't there.

All of them seem to bend the very lines they were drawn and coloured with, constructs too incomprehensible for reality itself.

When Harry lays down the white crayon he ran over the white parts of the largest one, trying to _get it right_ but failing once again, he looks up to see his teacher standing there.

Her expression reminds him of Petunia's, that one time before she locked him up _there_.

She hadn't listened to him then, when he tried to tell her that he _didn't do anything wrong_, but Lizzie has to.

"I'm- I'm drawing them. I know their not how they really are but I tried to make them right, really, but they look like this because I don' know how they looked anymore when my head showed me them but I think I have their names right!"

She blinks herself out of her stupor and tries to make a sense of Harry's hasty rant. It gives her head something to distract itself from what she saw.

"Harry. Slow down. What are... those?"

"Uh...huh?"

"Where did you see something like this?"

"I-I didn't. I didn't see them. I just, I drew them how it feels right."

Lizzie crouches down so she can see eye to eye with Harry.

"Really? You didn't see anything like this before? Like a scary monster on the television or on something outside? You didn't see anything like what you drew?"

She is unsettlingly aware of the sheet of paper and what's on it in the corner of her eye.

Harry shuffles a little before mumbling a hesitant answer.

"I think."

"You think? What does that mean?"

"I think I didn't see them. I don' see when my head tells me things."

"Harry? What do you mean with 'your head tells you things'?"

"You don' know? Does your head not tell you things too?"

"I want to hear it from you."

"Uh... my head shows, wait no, tells me things. But they are not like all other things because my head just tells me them and I don't think them myself. And when it tells me them, I don' see...", he trails off, eyes faraway and mouthing around nothing while he searches for the right words. Then looks back up at Lizzie.

"I see nothing. Like when I sleep, just very short. And when I see again I really really wanna know what my head had told me. Because it's important. But I always can't, even if I try many many times. Do you know what your head tells you?"

At that, Lizzie has to take a few moments to sort his words out. She grapples with their meaning like with a wet bar of soap, there is a sense but she hardly gets it. She gingerly speaks up.

"When your head tells you something, you call that a thought..." More things fall into place and she continues with more confidence.

"And no, I don't have thoughts like you said, Harry, nobody does. And it's also not normal to black out, 'not see anything' as you said, when thinking. That's not normal. You saw these... you saw what you drew in your thoughts?"

'_Nobody does_', echoes in his head. _'Nobody does. That's not normal_.'

"Harry? Are you alright?"

He blinks and sees that he still is looking at Lizzie, unspeaking.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Harry slowly shakes his head.

Her worried frown evens out as she puts on a cheerful tone, pressing the matter won't do her any favours. He needs to be willing to open up when he is encouraged, not pressured.

"You know what Harry? You don't have to tell me now. You can tell me later at any time, whenever you want, alright? I'll listen to you. We can find a way to fix this."

_('There is nothing to be fixed'_)

"...Okay."

"Great! Now, do y-your, uh, friends here have names? You said something about names earlier, right?"

Though he still acts a tad more subdued than usual, some liveliness does come back to Harry as he straightens and points at the largest and mainly white... _whatever that is_. Lizzie forces herself to focus on his pointing hand instead.

"This is Milas."

On one of the bookshelves rests a book titled '_The Adventures of Milas Meerkat_' that was their lecture the week before.

The green and blue is next.

"This is Rachel."

Little Rachel is on the other side of the room still working on her tower with Gabby.

And to the golden one-

"This is Gabby."

Lizzie can't blame the girl for reacting like she did.

"That-That's very nice, Harry. But you should pick other names for... your friends here. The others don't like it if you use their names."

Harry looks at her. And keeps looking. It isn't until her face starts doing something strange that he thinks he should probably say something.

"Okay."

She breathes deeply, once, twice.

"Good, I'm glad you understand." She shoots him a smile. "Now, I'll get going. You keep on doing you. But, remember, you can come talk to me at any time, alright?"

He gives a small nod.

With that, she stands up and steps away. He looks back at his sheet and wonders what could have made her act as flimsy as she did.

He shakes that question off and continues drawing.

After some time, Harry feels this current crayon he is using also grow too short for him to use precisely, as precisely as he can at least.

He sets it down and takes one more look at his picture, gripping the paper on both ends and holding it up to inspection.

They don't look quite right... colours don't carry enough shades and lines are drawn where they shouldn't be, though they still belong there. Proportions look too unhinged but not unhinged enough...

Still. Despite all that, the three figures on the paper carry a vague familiarity. And although this inkling is but the shadow of a real emotion, he feels safe looking at them.

_(Completed)_

...Harry blinks himself back to reality.

He holds the paper to his chest and smiles. The smile doesn't fade for the remainder of his day at the kindergarten.

He keeps on holding it, though his gut tells him to vanish the smile when Petunia eventually picks him up, not bothering to help him put his old coat on, and has him stand by while she coddles and coos over Dudley, helping him get dressed.

The moment they are trough the door at Privet Drive, she rips the paper from Harry.

"What's that, boy-_Dear Lord_!"

She stands there. _Looks_ at it. And Harry _knows_ what will come, the fear roots him in place.

As such, he doesn't evade Dudley in time as the other boy knocks him over racing to grab onto the hem of his mother's dress.

"What's that? Give me!"

His weight drags her down but doesn't topple her. The dress makes a dangerous ripping sound but Petunia doesn't acknowledge it.

Her eyes keep on rapidly flitting over the paper.

"Give! Give! Give! GIVE!"

Neither of them, Harry still propped up on the floor and staring and Petunia, who slowly lowers the paper with her trembling hand, react in any way to Dudley.

Dudley then tries to lunge for the paper. That snaps Petunia out of it.

She clutches it tightly as she raises it out of his reach and the unmistakable sound of paper being crumpled makes Harry wince.

Her eyes meet his.

"Into the cupboard. _Now_."

Her cutting tone makes even Dudley slow down and only serves to increase the weight of fear shackling Harry down.

"Did you hear? Cupboard. Get a move on!"

He is afraid of what Petunia can do but he fears the cupboard more.

_('You dirty bitch. Not even worth breaking, if I chould smite you here and now-')_

Harry feels the pull on his shirt before he sees what is happening. But once he does-

"..._no_", his voice rasps, low where he would want it to scream.

Screaming would only make his stay therelonger.

The wooden tiles flow away under his legs, he is not as large as Dudley so she would have no trouble picking him up only she doesn't but instead drags him-

He catches sight of the crumpled up paper in her other fist and a glimpse of pale yellow and blue and white.

_(The last he saw before he was thrown into the cage)_

Harry hears a door open, he is pushed instead of dragged now and that same door closes again.

It is dark.

The only sounds are his breathing and the beating of his heart and they only serve to emphasize the stillness, the darkness. There is nothing, no one, but him here.

His head feels dizzy and trough the blanket of static that lies over his world - what world, nothing is here - he thinks he feels his chest fall up and down with breaths that come faster than they ever have.

_(He shouldn't be as freaked out. He is used to it, isn't he. Pathetic.)_

_(...But knowing he had just gotten a taste of freedom only to be locked up is what fucks him over.)_

_(Again)_

Harry's eyes sting and for a hopeful, _idiotic_ moment he thinks it is from exposure to light.

His chest is too tight for his heart, his lungs, any moment now it will be too much.

Or not. He can't differentiate his blackening vision from his surroundings.

Harry screams but something is in his throat, blocking his voice, his breaths.

Only when the pain in, no, onhis throat overrides the pain in his chest does he notice that it is from his own hands gripping it tight.

He can't scream, cannot, can't let his voice betray him, they will leave him here longer, abandoned in the dark.

If only there was-

_('LIGHT')_

Three things happen at once.

Something heavy pulsates in his chest, next to his heart.

The pain overthrows the raw instinct to keep himself from making a single soundand he slips his hands away from his own neck.

In the same motion they light up.

Sparks, themselves of a pure white in colour, emit a light blue sheen that reduces the darkness to harmless shadows cast by the shelves he can see now.

Then it's black once more.

Thus, out of nowhere, the stunned Harry is faced with a mental bifurcation as this twist rips new possibilities into being. Then, he shakes himself out of this stupor and goes down the path that leads somewhere instead of spiralling down into panic.

It doesn't matter that the sparks vanished after what was too brief to be a moment and take the light with them, Harry knows what he's seen.

...Does he?

He has to blink away the bright spots burned into his eyes after the sudden exposure to light and all doubt is eradicated before it can root.

That was his doing, right? Then he recalls the sensation of something else beating alongside his heart.

He tries to do it again.

And again.

And again.

And doesn't fail to try anew.

Suddenly the darkness is not all-encompassing anymore, he now has a task that he needs to pour his every ounce of strength and concentration into, for at the end of this tunnel, there is _light_.

And if not, then that only means he has to go further. Anything to take his mind off his surroundings.

Time starts to warp and his attempts become countless as they melt into each other. Slowly but surely, they grow into more than just a lone lifetime he grabs onto, half-manic with determination born of desperation.

Eventually, he dares to stop and think it over. That is when it hits him:

The sparks were his doing alright. That means he has to find the means by which he summoned them, instead of repeatedly trying for it to come by itself to him.

Harry holds out his hands, forces his mind to stay with him because he will (must) soon be able to see them in front of him.

Light is what he wants to make. How?

He closes his eyes, chooses to not see anything and grounds himself that way.

Light, light, light... power. Of course, power.

He has the power to make light, and this time around he consciously searches for it, all the while willing it to transfer what he wants into reality.

Something stirs in his chest, a new weight that simultaneously is there and not makes itself known. Power builds itself up.

When the pressure releases because he wills it to, it chases a cool feeling like lightning trough his nerves and a spark lights up.

The spark is small, alone in number this time around and not half as bright.

But it is more than enough.

Harry drops his aching arms - that's curious, when did they start doing that - and it is the reminder that the promise of Petunia prolonging his stay here likely goes both ways for screaming and laughing that keeps him from letting his triumph be known loudly.

Speak of the devil.

When he hears the sound of the cupboard door being unlocked, instincts kick in once more and Harry has to downright battle his beaming grin into an impassive face.

It is a heavenly sound when he is on the inside but nothing in comparison to the feeling of having found out what he is capable of.

The cupboard door opens and he sees Petunia's face against the light.

Why is she looking at him like-

He finds that he doesn't care.

He doesn't care that she looks at him, doesn't care when she tells him to come and doesn't care when she leads him into the kitchen.

He doesn't care about Vernon sitting there at the table but he does care about his drawing laying in front of him, evened out though the folds in the paper from earlier - how much earlier? - still remain.

No one speaks for a while.

Then, it's Vernon who might as well be shouting in the dense silence when he gestures at the paper and sets on in a tone restrained by anger.

"What is this, _boy_?"

Harry doesn't answer. He doesn't know either.

"I ASKED YOU SOMETHING!-" and there goes any restraint, "What. Is. THIS!?"

He lowers his head. If he cares or doesn't, Vernon still is a threat to his wellbeing. Maybe if he answers, Vernon will not be too angry.

"I.. I drew them."

Vernon's mustache trembles under the heavy breaths he pushes in and out.

"THEM?!"

Harry was wrong. He feels how he shrinks in on himself under the sheer weight of Vernon's palpable anger.

"Whatever was in that head of yours when you decided to draw these abominations, it ends NOW! And in the future as well, if you as much as think, let alone do something abnormal, I will make you wish you have never been born, you hear me?!"

This time he says nothing.

"Let me tell you something, boy", Vernon continues lowly and Harry wishes he would scream. "We are doing you ungrateful brat a favor by not tossing you on the street but raising you to be a human being. We have been far too lenient with you but that ends now. From now on, the cupboard will be your new home."

Bile threatens to rise in Harry's throat, pumped upwards by the adrenaline making his stomach clench.

After a beat his fear feels off.

That's because it's a reflexive response.

_(This is different, this cage cannot hold him, cannot dim his light)_

_(He will be fine)_

_(That doesn't keep his fury from raging, how dare they-)_

Harry jumps high when a _slam_ loud like an explosion threatens to burst his eardrums and his eyes land on Vernon, stood up from his kitchen stool, and his large flat hand pressed on the table.

"Listen to me when I'm talking to you, boy! Listen! You will not, I repeat, will not let your freakishness show any further! Not here, not outside and not, under any circumstances, when other people are around! AM I UNDERSTOOD?"

The nod Harry gives is actually him forcing down his shaky breath.

Vernon's eyes narrow.

"Good."

Relief eases away the tremble in his limbs when Vernon stands up, not paying him any more attention.

Shock overthrows relief when, in a motion almost to fast to follow Vernon has grabbed the drawing and tears it. Once, twice, once more, a total of five times and too many pieces fall into the opened kitchen bin.

Five times a shredding sound has stabbed pain that might as well be physical into Harry's chest and he detachedly registers his legs moving on their own accord when Petunia ushers him back into the cupboard.

When the not so dreaded anymore sound of it being locked shuts him in a world that is not as empty any longer, the dark brings forth not terror but an idea.

For the second time this day, hyperfocusing on something is the lifeline that saves him from spiraling into despair.

"_You will not let your freakishness show any further_", Vernon said.

Harry doesn't care.

He'll just have to not get caught the next time.

Tonight, to be precise, when he tests if his newfound power can do more of his bidding than just sparks.

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

His powers are young but the steeled determination with which he keeps on pushing them to work is that of an old mind.

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

The next morning finds the kitchen's bin a few scraps of paper emptier and a boy passed out in the cupboard he just so managed to lock from the inside again, as he overexhausted his still fragile new abilities.

In fact, he is so unresponsive, his relatives give up on trying to wake him and excuse him from kindergarten for the day.

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

After three days he still hasn't been able to tap into his new abilities again but he refuses to give up trying. What keeps him going is not manic desperation, this time.

Strangely enough he doesn't fear the cupboard and it's darkness anymore.

_(Last time there was no escaping, his Grace and its uses were restricted and there was no reason to hope. This thing is a weak joke)_

But he still hates the quiet. It has become his motivator, what he needs to push away by focusing on... what, actually?

His power.

But what is it?

The talk with Lizzie and Vernon's rant have introduced him to a new, abstract possibility: that maybe other people are not like him.

The grown-ups don't talk about lighting sparks from their hands and opening locks without touching them or without using tech. And he can't look into their heads to see what goes on there, though Lizzie to this day seems insistent that his head works differently.

_"You will not, I repeat, will not let your freakishness show any further!"_

Harry takes that only statement half to heart. Freakishness. Is that what others see in him?

Then again, he is alone in the cupboard.

He keeps on trying and, at last, on the seventh day he finally makes a spark again and his tired legs give out under him, slumping him on the small mattress that officially made this cupboard his home.

On the ninth day he makes it brighter.

On the tenth day he is be able to maintain it long enough to properly look around and catch sight of the old box of shoe polish he hid his retrieved scraps under.

After three weeks he finally has come far enough and mended the torn paper. It takes him a few more hours to get the hang of evening out the folds.

That night, he stares at it long in the blue light of his sparks but does not see it. His mind lingers on the happy feeling deep in his chest that he felt drawing them, though at that time he was more focused on... what exactly... right, it was getting them right... right how...

And didn't he have names for them as well? He has a good memory, so why won't they come to him, what were their names-

When he falls asleep, he dreams of what his consciousness is too weak to access in his waking hours. And for the first time, he will not wake up in a panicked frenzy from what the depths of his being show him.

_Samael is the brightest, outshined only by God's Light and dimmed only by the Darkness' Mark adorning their wingtips._

_But Michael is the firstborn and the Commander, unsurpassed in might by any other angel._

_Their matches are always interesting to behold, and right now is no exception._

_They circle the edge of the universe within one wing's beat, such is the speed at which they fly. One pursues the other who evades before going over into attempting to reach an opening to attack, which is never presented for long enough._

_They don't meet for a long time, both are too experienced as to let themselves be hit._

_In a way, it is the first dance to ever take place._

_They have no need for communication, trough the Host or otherwise. They have been together since the beginning, are familiar with each other and know when their playfight's next phase is about to start._

_One last time they almost make contact, get close enough to attack each other but don't, can't, and then they separate, head into opposite directions and come to a halt._

_Earlier, that was them gliding idly. This is their real speed._

_The very instant they shoot off from opposite sides of the universe they already are in the middle and this time, they meet._

_The resulting shockwave of Grace rips nearby celestial bodies into disjoined elemental pieces and throws several angels out of their path of flight._

_But they are at fault for not getting far away enough from the two opposing archangels._

_The two opposing archangels who don't battle for real, though that is not to say it is not gruesome. Creatures literally made to fight, it is part of their very identity._

_Cold mercilessly chokes out heat and blazing Grace leaves burns on wings that are as luminous as they are freezing._

_Their respective ranks predetermine the outcome but both parties are so evenly matched, know and exploit each other's strengths and weaknesses so perfectly well, that doubt still creeps up on the onlooking angels._

_Then, the match comes to a decisive end._

_'Samael, do you yield?'_

_'So there actually is a reason you survived long enough to burden us all with your inability to comprehend the concept of jokes.'_

_This is Samael for singing someone's praises into the heavens._

_Michael releases their hold on the second and Samael raises a lone wing for closer inspection._

_The line where brilliant white abruptly cuts to darkest black is intact, the Mark is under full control._

_Michael watches closely, curtly messaging Raphael to command their still lingering siblings back to their duties._

_Among the Host's chattering that picks up again, someone radiates uneasiness. Michael traces it back to Gabriel, a process that attracts Samael's attention as well._

_The fourth is uncharacteristically quiet, despite having both their attention._

_'What is troubling you?',Michael inquires._

_'Sometimes, seeing you two fight... it's unsettling.'_

_A beat of silence passes, in which both Michael and Samael process Gabriel's words. A reaction uncommon for archangels, able to take in loads of information extremely fast._

_But then again, they never before have been faced with something as outlandish as what Gabriel is insinuating._

_Michael is the one to respond first._

_'Good thing we aren't serious, then. You needn't worry, Gabriel.'_

_Gabriel still radiates doubt and Samael puts an end to that by smacking them with a wing._

The dream shifts, as does Harry's sleeping form. A grin has sneaked its way onto his face.

_'What's that you're doing there, Raphael?'_

_Samael shrinks their True Form down significantly once deciding to check out what Raphael is up to on Earth, although they still won't touch down. Without a temporary vessel, they don't want to risk erasing entire landmarks by brushing against them with their exposed Grace._

_Raphael also has their wings and Grace very carefully tucked close and the part of their attention that isn't dedicated to greeting Samael is focused on an animal's cadaver._

_An animal that would later come to be known as eoraptor lunensis._

_Though Samael hovers over what maybe is Raphael's shoulder, the younger archangel doesn't bat an eye (or more) and continues what they were doing._

_Namely, weaving their Grace trough what remains of the cadaver's nervous system. Samael notes that they make a conscious effort to abstain from revitalising the rotting and damaged cells, as is in their nature as the Healer._

_An inspection of the surrounding energies and auras only shows traces of the dead animal's soul and they vanish where another presence left its mark. So a reaper already came to guide the soul on._

_However, Raphael doesn't make a move to reach out and bring it back from Heaven. Samael's curiosity peaks, though they say nothing, intent on watching on._

_Raphael is done and Samael sees the thin tendrils of Grace spanning trough all remaining nerve tracts, strangely enough not congregating in brain and spine and not bridging the empty gaps where rot and scavengers tore trough tissue._

_Then, there is no Grace but electricity and the cadaver jumps up. Before promptly collapsing back down again because with one leg that is rotten beyond use what's left of the bipedal reptile can't hold itself up._

_'That's a neat trick, Raph.'_

_'I thought so as well. I reckon that this particular energy is also capable of healing, however I have yet to test it.'_

_'Then better start testing on those maggots in there. Or Michael will get puffy because without these particular maggots that one breed of fly will never evolve to exist outside of Eden.'_

_'...Tell Michael that and I will inform them of our siblings you got stuck in a spacetime rift.'_

_'I beg to differ, I did not 'get them stuck', I was teaching them flight tricks.'_

_'And thus you have the reason they all go to Gabriel for that.'_

_'They do?'_

_'Despite my advising them to be cautious, as one rarely knows with Gabriel.'_

_Samael pointedly ignores the unspoken implications Raphael broadcasted their way this last sentence._

Another dreamscape (or is it a memory) forms.

_Samael is taking off, headed to where-_

There is a faint knocking sound on a door that feels far away and he thinks he knows that it should actually be close.

_'Are you, by any chance, trying to pull something over on Michael without letting me in on it?'_

Awareness returns to him but only enough for him to feel that he doesn't feel his limbs.

That's Gabriel, talking trough the Host

He remembers that he has eyes that are closed shut.

_'Where do you come in?'_

_'I just picked up a vibe from Parent. The one They always sport when you two are concerned. You somehow found a way to wear Parent's endless patience thin. Me too.'_

_That has no business making Samael this proud_

The knocking is loud now, as is Petunia's voice.

Harry wakes up with a strangely sad tinge to the grin he's sporting. It fades when he can't recall why and leaves behind a hollow feeling.

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

"Hello, Harry. How are you doing?"

"Good."

"It's been a while. These... thoughts you mentioned. Do you still have them?"

"No."

_('And now butt out, woman')_

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

Harry is no longer four, his abilities grow slowly but steadily and he learns what parts of himself he can show to what people.

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

Privet Drive four and its vicinities are out of question.

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

The classroom and the school's yard, anywhere his classmates are, are the least safe.

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

To Harry, Dudley and his would-be yobs are an annoyance at worst. That is until they boldly decide to go the step further and, one recess, the five of them bodily drag Harry and another of their hapless targets, a boy named Liam, behind the school building to where they found a dead hedgehog.

"Here, we found you a new friend.", Dennis jeers, drawing chackles from the other four.

Malcolm takes over.

"Yeah! One who will want to talk to freaks like Harry and will not feel like beating up weaklings like Liam."

Gordon has to be the one to one-up it.

"Look, it even looks like Harry!", he shouts, indicating the rotting mess of spikes with a foot. "It smells like Liam too!"

"Ha, you're right, they'll will be best friends forever."

More laughing follows. Harry has gone still, with the exception of his eyes scanning the situation while he considers his options. No racing heart or wrenching gut is distracting him because his calm doesn't stem from being paralyzed with fear.

That's not the case for Liam.

The laughter from Dennis, Malcolm, Piers and Gordon continues, though it is Dudley who is the loudest and thus his next words don't go under:

"If they are best friends then why don't they pick it up?"

The laughter fades away and now they look at the two of them with a new glint in their eyes.

"That's a great idea, Duds", Piers' slimy voice says in an equally as slimy tone, before turning sharp when he barks at Harry and Liam:

"Pick it up! Now!"

Save for Liam's trembling, none of them moves a muscle. Until Liam is viciously pushed forward from behind by Malcolm. He just so manages to catch himself short of stumbling into the hedgehog but the sudden movement has stirred up several flies from under the downwards facing belly.

For a second their buzzing is all that is audible before Dudley and his lot once again erupt into a cacophony of exclamations and cackling.

The odor that he is now close enough to smell kickstarts Liam into a feeble attempt to resist.

"N-No, please, don't-"

"You hear that? He said yes!"

Dennis comes to stand in front of Liam and, as the tallest of the group he towers over him.

"So? What are you doing? If you don't do it now I'm gonna beat you."

It's the high of his buddies' encouraging grins that makes Dennis lift a foot and roll the hedgehog over right onto Liam's feet, a movement that bares the side that was hidden until now.

Greyed ribs protrude from a squirming mass of dirty white maggots. Their many black heads in constant movement give the illusion of an organ still alive and working inside the half-decayed animal.

With a shriek, Liam jumps back. Some spikes got hung up in the material of his shoes and thus the hedgehog is shifted as well, resulting in some little specks of dirty white and black cascading down the sides.

Dennis jerks back too, as do all the others.

And Harry finally has an opening he can exploit.

Intent on pretending nothing happened, Dennis continues on talking, with his eyes not wandering lower than Liam's green-tinged face.

"What's the problem, bedwetters? Too scared to touch a little hedgehog? We beat you if you don't-"

"Too scared? Come on."

From behind Liam, Harry saunters into view, aware of all their attention turning to him.

He doesn't have to fake the confidence in his toothy grin like he doesn't have to force himself to meet each of their eyes until he finally looks straight up at Dennis.

"You make it sound as if-" he bends down and when he straightens back up again he is holding the carcass "-touching a dead animal is a big deal."

Harry is lightly cupping the hedgehog's rounded spiky back with both hands. Its stiffened feet stick outwards. He also is the smallest, with him presenting it on his chest level, everyone has a very clear view on what festers on those rotten black intestines that are now discernible.

The stench is pungent.

Once again the buzzing of flies in the only sound, though if one listens closely, the rustling of hundreds of greedy little maws devouring their meal is to be heard.

Harry's grin doesn't waver, it grows.

They are still staring. Then Dudley is the first to take a slow step back.

Harry's gaze finding him is that of a predator locking in.

"Hey now. You can't see it if you go away."

That grin and that bright green stare bore into Dudley's soul.

"Let me help you with that."

That simple sentence of Harry's, delivered in a chipper tone, binds all of five bullies to where they are standing and them front row seats for an impending disaster.

What lies dormant in his chest is what Harry concentrates on, what he holds in his hands is what he wants to manipulate but all that exists now is Dudley, whose rotund features are starting to morph into something just this side of feral with fear.

It looks good on him.

Something in his chest throbs and it is not his heart.

Maybe it will look good on the others as well.

When he lowers his hands the hedgehog remains in place.

Harry tears his gaze from Dudley to revel in the others' expressions, each frozen in gradual states of shock and disbelief.

Then, he flips the proverbial switch and time starts flowing again. One by one, they rapidly begin moving again. Piers, Dennis, Malcolm and Gordon snap out of their states and fall into dead sprints, though Dudley is the first to start running.

Running from the flying cadaver on their trails.

After a little over two meters it is out of Harry's reach and drops to the ground by itself, sending many a maggot squirming trough air and grass.

They share a striking resemblance with the five squirming and stumbling figures that grow smaller in the distance with each passing second.

It's only when they turn the corner of the school's building that Harry has a chance to even begin trying to reign in the laughter that sends waves of aching pain trough his gut.

He is still laughing when he looks at Liam but that slowly drowns out in confusion.

Liam doesn't look happy. Has he not understood that Harry just did the two of them a great service?

He feels his eyebrows arch into a frown.

All Liam can do is stare. At Harry. At the cadaver. At his feet, where a few stray maggots still squirm. Back at the cadaver, a good two meters away.

At Harry, while he takes a slow step back.

Harry doesn't feel like laughing when he watches Liam squirm and stumble away.

The bell ringing the end of recess cuts trough the inextricable tangle of emotions that keeps him looking at that spot at the corner of the building where Liam rounded it and disappeared. Harry starts making his way toward it and as he comes closer, further away from the hedgehog and the maggots, the smell still sticks in his nose.

He looks at his hands, glistening with a pale yellowish-red liquid and as his first instinct is to call upon his power to make it go away, the tangle of emotions finally makes sense.

He is unsure. He did something good for both him and Liam, still the other reacted like he did.

Is his power something to be disgusted and afraid of? Is he?

_"You will not let your freakishness show any further"_

...No. _No_.

Who are they all to decide for him what he can and can't do, can't be, if he wants to be accepted? If they want to react like that, treat him like that, because he is different, that's on them.

When Harry clenches his fists and stuffs them into his pockets, they are clean.

It was stupid of him to reveal these other parts of himself to those who aren't like him.

...But those who are like him, do they even exist?

_('They do')_

_('They are out there, for better or worse')_

Inside of his left pocket he feels a folded paper. Though for the first time holding on to it and remembering what is on it doesn't bring any sense of comfort, however faint.

Something is off the rest of the school day as well. Then again, the looks from five (six) other people are to be expected.

The next day they are eleven.

The day after twenty.

The day after Harry doesn't bother to acknowledge the side-eyes from almost all his peers anymore.

After the looks come the whispers. Harry finds that he is good with whispers.

"Piers says that he is evil", they say when they think he doesn't hear or listen to them. "And, I mean, it's Piers."

"Do you see how Dudley and Dennis and Malcolm and all the others look at him? It's creepy."

"I tried to ask Malcolm why they all are scared of Harry but he didn't want to answer and he looked like he wanted to puke and then he didn't finish his sandwich."

"His eyes have a strange colour. My dad always says that people with strange colours can't be trusted because they are bad."

"You see how he looks at nothing sometimes? As if he's not really here."

"Have you seen his scar? I swear, he has a scary scar on his face, right under the hair. For real!"

"Liam is more scared of him than Dudley..."

They think wrong. He hears all of them.

It gets to the point where their head teacher even invites him into her office to talk.

Questions are asked, if he has friends, if he feels lonely, how he feels about the other children, questions of the like.

His smile is picture perfect and enough to reassure. It also helps his case that he has taken to sit and do group work with another pariah, Timothy, though the latter is an outcast because he rarely looks others in the eye and it's even rarer that he talks more than one word.

Harry can live with the others whispering and looking and pointing. But still, when he wanders the empty halls to and from the head teacher's office that day, with the other children's faraway shouts and conversations coming trough and echoing if he listens close enough, them not pointing him out... it feels nice.

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

At Mrs. Figg's he doesn't need to have his guard all that high up.

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

"Harry dear, would you like some more chocolate cake?"

Asking is only a formality. Mrs. Figg has already loaded a generous slice onto a plate onto a tray and is delivering.

She finds her guest where she left him in her living room, sitting on her sofa, engrossed. Though not in the cartoons that are playing on the television but - and would you look at that - two of her cats, one of them the very timid Mr. Paws.

When she sets the tray down on the coffee table and the resulting soft clink draws their attention, two sets of vivid green and one set of glowing yellow eyes blink up at her. She chuckles lightly.

"I'm happy to see you get on well with Tibbles and Mr. paws."

Harry seems taken aback.

"That's what you call them?"

What an odd way to phrase it.

"Why, of course."

"And who is who?"

Has Mrs. Figgs already gotten so old that she has neglected to introduce the boy to her pride and joy? What an unacceptable oversight she will have to correct, starting now.

"See, dearie, there in his black and white tuxedo, like the gentleman he is, is Tibbles", she indicates said tomcat. "And looking at me with his handsome yellow eyes is Mr. Paws."

Harry doesn't say anything, he just hums. But he still gives off the air of someone mulling something over, so Mrs. Figgs waits for him to get his words in order.

"Tibbles and Mr. Paws aren't like other cats, are they?"

They really aren't, with their kneazle blood distinguishing them from other cats in many things that exclude appearance.

"Yes, they are special. And you are too, finding that out so quickly. Speaking of, how did you notice?"

He shoots her a short look before he answers.

"Other cats aren't as talkative."

Normal people go with such a sentence by not taking the 'talkative' literally. Mrs. Figgs doesn't. This is Harry Potter she is conversing with, after all.

"Oh, that's lovely. So you have talked to different cats before? What were they like?"

Ironic, how her casual reaction is what throws Harry off.

"They... uh, talking actually is not the right word. When they want to let you know something, they move and don't make many sounds. So I have to really concentrate on them and then it starts to make sense what they want to tell me. You seem - You seem like this is normal?"

"Absolutely! You see many things as normal that others wouldn't when you are an old lady like me-" And a squib but the time for him to know hasn't come yet, "-but don't you worry, dearie, it will all make sense someday, I promise."

"But can't you tell me more now? What other things are actually normal? Does it have to do with why Tibbles and Mr. Paws are different?"

"One day, dearie, one day. I promise, it will make sense."

She smiles warmly.

Then she remembers that he isn't supposed to learn anything about his heritage prematurely and she is under no circumstances supposed to talk about it.

Her smile falls away and so does Harry's own tentative one.

...Stupid old scatterbrain that she is starting to become. Anyway, what damage is done there is done and not repairing it won't hurt. He has, what, only three more years? Two and a few months?

Years in which he has to learn to consciously keep his abilities under wraps, and if he already shows traits this strong at this age-

"Harry, listen to me, will you? I think you know what other people than you and me, like the Dursleys-" she suppresses a frown, "-or children at school think is normal."

An expression she can't quite get the hang of fleetingly passes his face.

"And there are things that decidedly are not normal, going by everyone else. But these things they call 'abnormal' or other names, they are not wrong. But people will not see that so that is why they must be kept a secret."

She sees his frown and him drawing a breath to ask but she undermines it.

"It will make sense, dearie, I promise it will, one day."

The silence is tense, even with animated characters laughing in the background, and she eases it by putting a finger to her lips and winking.

"But I am not boring like the other people so you can tell me anything. Have you tried understanding other animals as well?"

Mrs. Figgs would have liked another ruse to change the subject but she has the feeling that if she would have been to point out the cartoons, that are continuously generating ambient noise, he wouldn't have lit up like this and started recounting. She also is in no small parts curious herself about this ability of his, she listens attentively:

"Birds, squirrels and mice don't always stay near me long enough", Harry sets on, his beaming eyes growing pensive. "Dogs would like to but their owners always pull them away. Insects are too busy."

He looks back at her with a renewed gleam in his eyes.

"Snakes are easiest. I only saw two but they both liked to come to me and they made the most sounds of any animals. They didn't communicate with their bodies and movements as much, it was more like they were speaking an actual language!

Mrs. Figgs, is something wrong?"

"...What? No, absolutely nothing is wrong, dearie. This silly old lady just completely forgot about Tufty and Snowy, who are still outside and need to be called in for their meals, is all."

She feels his eyes on the back of her head when she leaves.

All the next times Harry is given into Mrs. Figgs' care, she so vehemently resists his attempts to get more out of her, that he eventually lets the matter die.

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

A large and beautiful, circular room is full of little noises. One of them is the rustling of a letter being opened.

Then, a long-suffering exhale comes from the one person in the room that is three-dimensional.

That exhale is followed by the sort of '_hm_' that is given when something is unexpected but interesting.

Finally, a flame's hiss is to be heard, indicating a response letter being delivered.

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

The cupboard is technically the best place.

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

The abandoned playground is actually the best place.

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

One Sunday, Harry finishes his chores extra early and has what remains of the day for him.

That day he wanders further into the park that might as well be a forest and he finds what he in a way knew he needed. A place more diverse and way more spacious than the cupboard but just as secluded. Where he will continue being alone, no others there to judge what he is doing.

It's perfect even if it doesn't look that way, this old and destroyed playground. A location so evidently forgotten about that still can serve its purpose as a place for the young to frequent and get creative in, pushing their limits.

And he had to quite literally stumble upon it. Harry absentmindedly rubs at his eyes.

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

Harry is eight when he learns that the Dursleys don't like people asking questions about him. To avoid them, they'll even go as far as buying him glasses.

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

He is nine when he puts that knowledge to use.

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

He has to hide who he is away in unobserved moments, the isolation of the cupboard and that of the playground but Harry doesn't, for one second, wish that he truly was like everyone else.

Because in Timothy, the shy, the subdued and the apathetic, he sees himself how he could have been, had he not had the means to bring light into his darkest hours.

They only ever opened up to each other about their home lives once, briefly, but ever since the consensus that they both keep silent about similar happenings hovers both comfortably and disquietingly between them.

Harry questioned what would happen if he were to break the silence. One day, Timothy brings the answers.

Although the two of them are tight during school hours, during recess they go their separate ways. Timothy goes outside with the other children, Harry doesn't.

He hasn't forgotten how wandering the halls alone was a moment of peace. And he has found that concealing his presence in any way possible from wandering teachers that would send him out, to the other children and their stares and whispers, is a fun exercise.

He likes to trail them, watch them throw looks over their shoulder without seeing him because he has what they don't have and can hide it and himself along with it. Given, for mere seconds on end and it exerts him immensely, still-

_(He is bigger than them and they can't see it, he can be there one second, gone the next, comes and takes off without them the wiser)_

_(This isn't flying but it's as close to it as he has gotten in a too long time, he'll take what he can get)_

Of course, there sometimes are children in the hallways too.

But never before Timothy and when Harry sees him he makes a full stop. Doesn't hush to hide because he hasn't made a sound in the first place.

Where is he going? Normally, that's not a worthwhile question but this is Timothy.

And he is turning left, into the hallway that leads to classrooms that currently are empty and the headteacher's office that isn't.

The sensible headteacher's office, the one teacher, aside from someone Harry remembers he had back in kindergarten, who does more than teach and entertain, but actively asks questions.

Should he feel bad, guilty, anything at all about following Timothy and standing outside the door to listen in?

Then again, nothing Timothy will say is any news to Harry. Given that the teacher asks.

The curiosity to find out keeps Harry here and inside, he hears the teacher greet Timothy.

It comes as a surprise and it doesn't, the questions start. Timothy answers.

One more similarity they share between them, Harry now learns, is that both of them have their earliest memories of watching their relatives lavish their attention on another child while they watch on, hungry and forgotten.

And Harry knew that Timothy is a normal boy. He can't unlock where he is kept to access the fridge at night when it's safe, can't pass long dark hours by making them bright, can't ease the weight of his chores by wishing dirt he is tasked (ordered, forced?) to clean away and his step-brother is not afraid of him.

What Harry hears there, is how his own life is. His using his power? Him just working around the hardship but not breaking the unjust rules.

His power... emotions surface again, buried ever since he made the first sparks. The terror, as unyielding as the darkness before he knew what to do against it and right here, right now, his hairs stand on end.

_('...How long has it been in the cage?')_

_(Time itself doesn't matter, how it deteriorates his wings and Grace in his confinement does)_

_(He doesn't deserve what he got, what he did was justified)_

_(Not wrong)_

_(Wrong... Amara is wrong, the leviathans are)_

_('They go against existence, are destruction without creation, unbalanced')_

_('They deserve incarceration')_

_(He doesn't, didn't, he didn't do anything wrong, didn't go against existence)_

_(Lilith, was what she called herself and the names that followed after her come to him as well)_

_(He was the fourth powerful being in all of current Creation and he did his never before seen worst against a lone human soul and then another and another)_

_(He did what he did and does not regret it)_

_('They were only humans getting what they deserved')_

Are these breaths that Harry hears, pulling him back to the present?

That is clearly the sound of air being inhaled but he isn't sure they're breaths... Why is Timothy not talking anymore?

_(The sound of their vocal chords giving up on them)_

_('This human, young as he is, is just as rotten as the rest of them')_

_('He deserves everything he gets')_

_(...)_

_(...)_

_(...)_

_('But this boy has only ever suffered, since his earliest years, when his mind was not even mature enough to form coherent memories and his body too weak to do much of anything, how does he des-')_

_(...)_

_(Anger overcomes him, hatred)_

_(Sickening disgrace to himself that he is, himself being everything that's left to him and even that betrays him, after his family already did, how can he even consider thinking of a human more than unworthy of Creation, deserving of anything better than what he himself did to the likes of Lilith)_

The not-breaths continue. That is when Harry realizes that he... that he feels bad for Timothy.

But why does that make him feel so repulsed?

He wants to feel bad for Timothy without feeling weird about it, what is wrong with that?

That thought itself feels weird and he doesn't want it to. Where is that disgust coming from, is this his own emotion or not? What a stupid thought, of course that's his emotion. But why does it feel so invasive, not _his_-

Enough. He's had it.

Faraway, Harry registers that he resurfaced but it doesn't feel in any way different from when he got lost in his own mind again.

He feels the body that he has. What a funny thought. A body, that he has, that is his, that he moves, that he was born in, it's his and his alone to own.

A body that feels like it weighs everything and he slumps against the wall. Just in time to slide down along it because his legs give out. He knows that they don't buckle out of weakness but because he... plain doesn't feel like moving.

He doesn't feel like anything, really.

Because if he does, nothing will make sense. He, Harry, doesn't make sense.

He doesn't know why he thinks that but that's nothing new, not knowing, is it?

In fact, he is so used to not knowing, he doesn't bat an eye when a second or moment or a minute in time has gone by without him experiencing it because he wasn't there, mentally.

But where was he then?

Nothing. His mind feels like his limbs. Unmoving not out of inability but unwillingness. A resignation that goes deeper than his bones.

For once, no thought races trough his brain, he doesn't calculate, ask or do anything at all.

The bell rings. His legs move on his own, lead him away fast enough as to not be spotted when the head teacher's door opens, carry him trough the remainder of the school day.

It passes with what feels like a dam containing his thoughts from flowing, what he sees is what is in front of his eyes and what he thinks about is the next sentence he will read on his worksheets, the next letter he will write in his answers and he looks at the empty place next to him without seeing that Timothy usually sits there.

Time passes like it hasn't passed before, precisely not too fast and not too slow and the feeling that the exact amount of time that the clock indicates has passed is a new one.

After school, he automatically finds his way trough a large park to an old playground and that's when the dam breaks and he thinks again.

It is refreshing. In hindsight he gets what made him shut off, his head simply was too overstimulated. He needed a break.

He remembers what he heard in that office. What he thought, just before he blacked out and came to in the midst of a strange emotional malfunction.

Neither of them did anything. Harry doesn't deserve how he is treated. Timothy doesn't as well. How could he ever think otherwise?

His breath comes out heavy as heat rises in his chest.

His fists clench but what pressure his scrawny arms can exert is not enough to make his anger air.

Timothy is weak like him, even more so but he found a way to fight back. Harry didn't.

_His using his power? Him just working around the hardship but not breaking the unjust rules._

Anger clenches down on his sternum.

A loud crack is to be heard, it echoes in the forest and Harry looks up in time to see the old slide, patterned by rust and graffitis, collapse.

Then, his anger is no more because he has decided to act. Timothy already has, he is next.

But he also needs to see what comes of Timothy's breaking his silence. For that, he will need patience.

And after four days, with Timothy not showing again, his patience pays off.

It starts with the rumors and for once, Harry is not everyone's talk.

"They arrested Timothy's dad and his mum. I live across them and I saw police cars come to their house. Like in the movies but in real. But then my mum made me go into my room and didn't allow me to see more."

"Maybe they also had a garden in their cellar like the people on the news?"

"No. I asked my mum and she said that his parents are bad people and that's why they go to jail."

"So did they, like, steal stuff? What'd they do?"

"I don't know but, uh... I don't really wanna think about it. My mum looked so sad and so angry when she told me and I kinda don't want to know what made her feel like that."

"And why didn't he come back? Did they take him too?"

"I don't know..."

In the five minutes break between classes, Harry remains where he is, seated at his table, while the other children wander the classroom and form groups, one of them being the one who he just listened in on.

Unfortunately, the girl who had all the first-hand information and shared it as well has run out of answers to give to the other's questions and their topic of conversation shifts.

That should be fine because he already has a plan to go ask the head teacher.

"I'm worried about Timothy", is what he says and he truly means it. "I knew he wanted to talk to you but then he didn't come back. Where is he now and what happened?"

"Oh, Harry", the head teacher answers.

And that is when Harry doesn't learn but hear about how some children don't have it as well as others.

What he does learn is that there are better places for those children where good people take care of them because it is their job.

That family can be bad enough to go to jail too is new as well. And just what Harry needed to hear. He knows what he can and must do. But he doesn't have to keep down a victorious smile, his triumph is not of the positive sort.

That day, he takes no detours and walks straight to what is not his home but Privet Drive four.

Vernon had a good day. Several bonuses were cut back, he saved a large amount that way, and the empty promise of them coming in next month is the dangling carrot to the donkeys that are his company's employees.

He continues to have a good day when his wife greets him at the door that evening and leads him to where his dinner waits on the table. On the way he hears his son upstairs, screaming at the opponents he defeated in his video games and his pride skyrockets.

Who doesn't cross his mind, it would ruin his good day, is the other boy in the house.

Vernon's good day ends when his plate has joined the other in the dishwasher and only his glass of whiskey is out, where he sips it while conversing with Petunia. They are seated on the sofa in their living room.

Vernon is many things, one of them not quiet, a trait Dudley shares, and Petunia has the talent to sound like she is wearing heels in any shoes she walks in. In number four, someone always can be heard loud and clear-

"We need to talk."

-when they enter a room.

And when not, they immediately make up for their silence by getting everyone else's attention in one adrenaline-spiked second.

The two of them whip around to see the boy who is not theirs stand behind them.

Vernon looks into these unnatural eyes and sees what he fears and abhors most, rooted deep. How could they ever hope to eradicate the wrongness from this child when it contaminates his very core?

Petunia looks into her sister's eyes and sees every bit the witch that stole her everything for herself. Unknowingly, she covers what she sees with that caricature of that someone she once loved, instead of taking it for what it is.

Harry is beyond furious, his cold composure only betrayed by his gaze. He will make this work now or so help him.

Dudley has stopped yelling but he could've continued at twice the volume, it wouldn't have mattered.

"I'm telling you, it ends now-", Harry sets on lowly, he is the one in control and Vernon, tipped on by his whiskey, foolishly fails to notice.

"BOY! What in God's name do you think you're doing? You do not get to talk that way-"

His jaw audibly snaps shut but not out of his own will and it won't open again.

"You will _listen_ to me!", Harry snaps trough Vernon and Petunia's stunned silence and in his anger a hiss resonates in his words.

"How you treat me, everything you do, you know what I mean and don't pretend you don't, it ends."

Vernon can't talk but his his dismissive snort says it all. With a mouth sealed shut, whiskey and his sheer aversion to the power that does it keeps his growing fear at bay.

"But if you don't listen, if you continue, I can have you arrested. Like the parents of someone who was treated exactly like me were arrested, I just need to open my mouth to the people and it's over for you."

The hiss in his voice is still present.

That does it for Vernon, he is listening like Petunia already did. Only they don't hear the steps descending from upstairs.

Harry sneers.

"Oh, what would the neighbours say-"

He stops, the sneer is gone but the expression he wears is empty but all the more unnerving for it.

He steps aside and turns halfway around and they can see Dudley standing in the doorway, eyes widening. Dudley then takes a step back and the moment Vernon can open his mouth with a gasp, his heart skips a beat because he knows why Dudley has suddenly stopped moving altogether.

Harry's attention is on them again.

"You will stop making me do all these chores. You will stop forcing me to skip meals and you will no longer lock me into the cupboard, _am I understood_?"

That he is nine and talks in a child's voice doesn't matter, he is the most powerful person in this room and he will use that, because looking at Dudley then back to Vernon and Petunia, he has an idea.

"And", Harry adds and for once, he is the one to grin because he knows he will get what he wants. "The room full with Dudley's toys."

His burning cold stare finds Vernon.

"It's mine now. Tomorrow you will clear it out. Am I understood, Vernon?"

Harry said that last sentence softly because he has no need for a scathing tone anymore and Vernon, in his last effort to regain the control that was always his, sees this as an opening.

"You insolent freak-"

Harry's glare doesn't waver when he balls a fist, Dudley moves again but not really, his eyes bulge and his hands shoot up to desperately claw at his throat.

"Tomorrow, I want my new room. Do I hear a yes?"

"Enough!", Petunia shrieks. She whirls around to face Vernon whose expression slackened. "Vernon, do what he tells you!"

Vernon mouths something but Petunia interjects.

"Please, listen to him!"

Harry briefly assesses Petunia, her tense posture, and then Vernon is the center of his attention again.

"So? Will you do what I say?"

His bravado, however false, deflates.

"...Yes."

And he didn't even clench his teeth when he said that.

Harry's answer is Dudley's gasp. The large boy sinks to his knees, his legs giving up on him in both relief and shock.

For one more moment that passes way too slowly for it to be real, Harry meets Vernon's eyes. Then he turns around and the moment he disappears from view, passing Dudley without so much as looking at him, Petunia is upon her boy and he flinches under her hug.

When Vernon closes his eyes that night, he sees green.

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

They actually listened to him, Harry smirks to himself in his large new room.

And they let him be, don't look at him, don't talk to him. It fills him with cold contempt.

But now that he doesn't have them to worry about anymore, doesn't have anyone, really, his life feels empty. Or rather, emptier, as he always missed something.

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

He is short of eleven and it all makes sense the day the letter arrives. Mostly.

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•


	3. - Brand New Old World (Part 1)

Chapter 3: - Brand New Old World (1/3)

* * *

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

"I will be out the whole day."

After speaking, Harry looks up from the fork he dangles just above his emptied plate to Vernon and Petunia, whom he for once joined at the table. Without Dudley present, he won't be caught dead in the same room as Harry.

"You'll have me out of your hair then."

Precisely a day ago, the day the letter arrived, Harry had not wanted to take any risks and let Petunia and Vernon see it. On one hand, they may not acknowledge his existence at all anymore but on the other hand, to this day he is vary of letting them once again catch sight of an old drawing of his.

Which is why a minute later had found him in the safety of his own room, pulling the envelope out from where he had tucked it under his shirt. At the addressing, he did a double take. Then felt naive for hoping that it would all make sense once he opened it.

It wasn't until after half an hour that he had been able to put the letter and everything else the envelope contained down.

It explained _everything_.

Magic, there he had it, Mrs. Figgs must have meant this and she was right,_ it made sense_.

It also raised countless questions.

Out there, _there are people like him_. They have to be numerous, why else would they need an entire school? Are they living together in a magic community? If so, where? Why didn't he know until now? Why is he not there with them? Why did they contact him just now, after excluding him for almost eleven years?

Problems after problems, questions after questions but logically only one was important at the moment: How would he respond?

Composing a letter of his own had been a feat in and on itself, not only because_ who even writes letters anymore?_ After way too many ripped and balled up sheets from his paper block with various attempts at formulating a response scribbled on them, Harry had decided to not try avoid stating the obvious; He knew next to nothing about magic, let alone a society built around it.

In the end, Harry found that his response did read quite soundly, all things considered. He described his obliviousness. Stated some of what he'd done with his unrefined methods of just pushing his magic to work all these years. Asked about their (his) people, about the society, is he even right in assuming there is one?

(Didn't describe his inner workings and asked if _that's normal_.)

And if he came across as snippy at points (when asking about _how come he was kept in the dark all this time_), well, _his_ letter didn't take years to arrive.

Thus, the first hard part was done. Onto the second, namely the problem with sending his response.

Harry didn't have the remotest idea on what 'we await your owl' meant and after thinking trough every last option, which didn't take long, there were very few, he shrugged and up and decided to go at it the most obvious way. Respond per mail.

He hid the letters under the loose floorboard he discovered all these years ago upon inspecting his then-new room closer and set out to buy what was needed.

At that point Harry was sure that Petunia purposefully did not bring up the topic of the disappearing money from her purse, there was simply no way that Dudley inherited his astounding ignorance from that side of the family. He shrugged it off. As long as he had what he needed to buy a stamp and an envelope.

Though on the way to and from the post office he couldn't suppress the wrenching of doubt in his gut. His logical mind tried soothing it, telling him that he wasn't offered any other feasible way of responding (owl, what even?), so how else was he supposed to send a letter, and be it an unconventional one, but by mail? However, anxiety isn't one to be chased away by logic.

Finally, whatever doubts Harry had had about his venture were eradicated once he put the stamp on the now closed and addressed envelope containing his answer.

Holding it he had noticed how it grew to be unreasonably warm. Looking it over, a fleck of colour that hadn't originally been present caught his eye. It was the stamp. Fascinated, Harry observed how yellow bled from its corner, moving over its generic picture of a rose, covering all the red before more colours sprouted and formed. Then Harry held a letter with an H insignia surrounded by an eagle, a lion, a badger and a snake on its stamp.

He grinned. Silly him, there'd been no reason to doubt himself.

He immediately went to throw his envelope in, unknowingly using the same mailbox a little girl had frequented decades ago, sending her own letters, asking why she wouldn't be accepted into her little sister's magical school.

The response was delivered swiftly and along with it the answer to what 'we await your owl' meant. It found Harry just as he reached his safe space, the old playground, suddenly eager to run trough what feats he achieved once again.

And as owls are soundless flyers, he had no warning. When a sudden weight settled on his shoulder and several sharp points dug trough his shirt's fabric, Harry froze. Moved slowly to look, while high alert emptied his mind so he could focus on what he now knew to be magic in his chest, ready to call upon it. To act. When his eyes met big brown ones, quite expressive ones at that, he relaxed and he could've sworn that the large owl sitting on his shoulder threw an amused look his way.

In its beak it carried a letter, akin to the first one, and when it tilted its head forward, offering it to him, the sunlight falling trough the treetops above highlighted a familiar insignia on the wax seal.

Harry took it and the owl flew off, landing in a tree branch. He broke open the seal and kept fiddling with it, while reading the answer from Albus Dumbledore.

_Harry, my dear boy,_

_I am so very sorry to hear that no one has done anything to inform you of your true nature, though, I have to say that I am very glad to hear that you have taken to getting to learn about this side of yourself on your own accord. You were completely right to assume that there is a whole, functioning magical society, a world even, of witches, wizards and even mythical creatures, one hidden from the non-magical world as you know it._

_Once again, I cannot express how unfortunate it is that you never have gotten to know about it all, up until around the date of your eleventh birthday and the period of time around which every witch and wizard with magic capabilities receives their Hogwarts acceptance letter._

At that point, the notion that his eleventh birthday was indeed soon, Harry shortly paused. He had never understood why everyone else made a big deal of birthdays -with him that certainly wasn't the case - so he pushed that aside and continued reading.

_There is more to learn about our wizarding world, as we call it, than can be compressed into a single letter, which is why I come at you with a way for you to catch up on what you have unrightfully missed out: My esteemed colleague, Professor Minerva McGonagall, has offered herself and she shall be the one to answer all of your questions and introduce and guide you trough one of London's most vital magic locations, Diagon Alley. There you will also have the opportunity to buy everything needed for the start of your year at Hogwarts. On a side note, you needn't worry about money because your parents have left behind the Potter Family Vault, containing more than enough assets to get you by. You will be introduced to that by Professor McGonagall too. For that matter, please respond with a time, any that you see fit, starting tomorrow until the first of August at the latest, and a location for where you want to meet up with her._

_On a not so unrelated side note, the way you reached out to us via our alternate mailroute is admirable. Surprisingly few people not in the know receiving a letter from Hogwarts think of getting back at us in the most obvious non-magical way. However, this time around you can give the note with your response to the owl that delivered this very letter to you. It will know exactly where to take it._

_We await your response with anticipation, as we too are eager to introduce you to our wizarding world._

_Yours most sincerely,_

_Albus Dumbledore_

Dumbledore made a solid first impression, though Harry couldn't shake the feeling off that he was also verypeeved, mildly put, about his being left in the dark about this wizarding world. Something Harry wholeheartedly agreed with. The letter also had done a great lot to settle down the storm of questions raging trough him, with how it explained some absolute basics and also gave him an opportunity to learn more.

Speaking of which, Harry really urged to respond immediately.

He looked up at the grey shape among green leaves and the owl blinked back.

"You will wait for me here, yes? I've just gotta go fetch a response."

And he knew that it understood him.

For one second he thought about slowing down his erratic racing to his room, reigning in his excitement and considering how he would formulate another adequate response, all fancily. He left that thought at the entrance door. Waste of energy and patience. They owed him answers and would give them to him regardless of how hurried his response was:

Your fast reply means a lot, Professor Dumbledore

_Dear Professor McGonagall, I am very grateful for your offer and I would like to meet up with you tomorrow, at the entrance of Privet Park, at 14 o'clock._

_Harry Potter_

Snatching the paper from his block and stuffing it into an envelope, Harry ran back.

The owl hadn't moved, still sitting on the same tree branch and preening itself. Once Harry stopped his full sprint and just stood there panting and sweating, the envelope fast in his grip, it perked up and flew down to meet him. A little awkwardly he held out the envelope and the owl took it into its beak.

Harry watched the grey spot disappear. The next day couldn't come fast enough.

Which leads to the current situation.

It's twelve o'clock, the next day, two hours are left until Harry's scheduled to meet with Professor McGonagall and his announcement is met with silence by the Dursleys. Harry just stands up and moves to leave the kitchen after putting his plate into the dishwasher. Throwing a glance back, he catches the looks from Petunia and Vernon. He may or may not have imagined the unfathomable glint in their eyes.

Whatever, it's not like they care about his whereabouts anymore.

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

At quarter past thirteen, Harry is out of the house, his backpack on him. A washed out grey thing that still serves its purpose well despite its age. It's empty.

Harry doesn't know what this day will bring but he has an inkling that he will need something he can carry a few items in. That letter did say that he has money, after all...

Once at the park, his watch tells him that he is too early for his meetup with Professor McGonagall, but that is no problem. He has something else to do.

His backpack is empty because just his Hogwarts letter hardly counts. Though the paper makes up for its lack of physical substance by singlehandedly throwing off his life how it has been up until now, unsparingly putting into perspective just how limitedhe was.

The playground looks like Harry left it the day before and the years before that, old, forgotten.

The wooden chips that cover the ground. He levitated them, could hold up around five of them at once, twenty when he pushed himself all out.

The white graffitis. They once were purple, red, orange, blue and many more.

The section of the slide that glints in the sunlight, the one area that doesn't look aged beyond use, though it used to.

The pole that is bent to form a spiral. It took weeks.

The playtower that collapsed in on itself after the wooden and partially metal stakes were severed at several weak points in a single motion, which strained him to the point his power (magic) left him for a while after.

Everything else.

Harry feels a grin that is not a happy one pull on the corners of his mouth. How primitive will all this look in just a few hours when he will get to see Diagon Alley?

Though maybe he shouldn't look down on this place, it served him so well. It stands though, it's time to leave the child's play behind. There is the real deal to be learned out there. He turns around and leaves this place forever.

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

Delicate feline paws don't make a sound as they tread their silent way trough rows of bushes and a cat watches a lone figure sit down on a bench.

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

It's a wonder there even is a free bench for him to sit on, here, not far from the park entrance, on a sunny summer vacation day. Though, looking around at all the other empty benches around him and the glaring lack of other human activity all around, Harry more than suspects that this is no coincidence.

He checks his watch. Yup, it's time soon. Speaking of, what will an actual witch look like-

A soft wooden thumpechoes and Harry turns around to see a tabby cat that just jumped on the other side of the bench.

Yellow and green slowly blink a greeting. And what a peculiar pattern it is that surrounds yellow, in a way mirroring the round glasses that frame green.

Harry gingerly reaches out a hand to hold in front of the cat for it to take his scent in, letting it decide if it wants to be pet by him. The cat briefly sniffs once before retracting its head with backward-facing ears. They rotate back around when it continues pinning him down with its attentive gaze.

Does he smell like food or something? Either way he has none, so he looks away and ignores it. Then the feeling of being scrutinised increases tenfold and he looks back at the cat.

It blinks slowly again and he tilts his head at it for a moment before he shrugs and turns away again.

Just before Harry can check his watch one final time, because it really should be about time by now, the bench's wooden planks shift under him as if something heavy is settling down on the other end and an unknown voice speaks up:

"I think it is about time for me to introduce myself, Mr. Potter."

Next to him, a stern-looking woman meets his gaze. This time around the spectacles are not an illusion of fur patterns.

"I am Professor Minerva McGonagall."

Harry eases the buildup of energy away, he can relax.

"Can everyone transform into a cat?"

McGonagall didn't expect this reaction to be the first one. Neither did Harry, even if it are histhoughts that he blurted out. This isn't a letter procured in an exited haste anymore, this is the one person who he will have to rely on for this major thing today. He really should watch what he says and how and when he says it.

"Also, I'm Harry. Potter. Nice to finallymeet you."

What was he just telling himself? He catches the raised eyebrow she couldn't suppress. Way to make a first impression in person. Idiot.

Wait, didn't he already do that before andhe's so glad he didn't pet her-

"No, not everyone can transform into a cat. Nor another animal, for that matter-" why does that disappoint him this much "-It is a very difficult branch of magic and very few witches and wizards ever master it. Besides that, there are numerous other aspects to magic to be learned."

Harry sobers up as the countless questions that are waiting to be answered push trough.

"Speaking of which", his tone is serious now, "where are we heading? This wizarding world, Du-Professor Dumbledore said it's hidden, how do we get there?"

In lieu of an answer, McGonagall inclines her head, smiling a little. She stands up and Harry follows suit, eagerly awaiting her answer.

"There is one very important thing that you must know beforehand, Mr Potter." Her smile is gone and she looks sterner that even at the beginning. "No one must know about us. We have stayed hidden for several centuries now and it would be an absolute catastrophe if the nonmagical folk were to learn about magic existing. I have already cast a spell on this area that keeps unwanted witnesses from entering by making them turn around, following the sudden urge to go somewhere else."

At that, Harry looks around. Of course nothing looks out of place except for the emptiness, but the fact that magic, like his very own, can do something unseen, on a psychologicallevel astounds him. What elsecan magic do?

"I will now cast a spell", McGonagall continues.

Harry watches her every move.

Though McGonagall knows Lily's eyes to have been bright with the thirst of knowledge, she doesn't recall them being quite as, well, bright.

"Seeing as we will be moving trough the city to get to Diagon Alley, we will be surrounded by nonmagical people. The spell I will cast on us is a certain muggle-repelling charm that will prevent them from listening in.

"Mr Potter, I am sure you have a lot of questions", she finishes off in a softer tone.

Harry just watches on.

McGonagall makes an unusual movement with her wrist, flicking it inwards and then back while stretching her fingers out and a thin wooden stick slides into her hand. She-

"Wait."

McGonagall blinks, surprised. But Harry's eyes are not on her, they are on her wand.

"Do that again."

His tone-

Harry blinks too, one, two times and now his gaze meets hers.

"I'm sorry, can you please do it again? Your move with the stick?"

His tone. It isn't a harsh command anymore but politely pleading. He knows that talking to someone like Professor McGonagall like that won't get him anywhere. Harry should not have spoken like that in the first place, but the sudden urge had pushed him. He needsto see her do this again.

McGonagall frowns.

"It's called a wand, Mr. Potter. For now I forgive you your slip-up but be assured, we don't tolerate addressing Hogwarts Professors in such a manner."

Harry lowers his head but looks back up again when she goes to show him the move again.

Holding her hand up, so that her upper arm is in a vertical position, she lets go of the wand. It back falls into her sleeve and once again McGonagall smoothly draws it.

_(It's painful to watch. How long until he will wield his own blade again, if at all?)_

McGonagall, practiced duelist that she is, had no need to look away from Harry during her little demonstration. Therefore she registers everything: How his eyes glaze over, a stark contrast to how bright they usually are, and how his entire expression shifts into something faraway.

And is that sadness pulling at the edges?

Immediately the next second Harry is himself again and after he blinks away the momentary confusion, his eyes quickly dart to the left, the right and back to McGonagall's wand again.

What hope he has that McGonagall didn't notice is whisked away by her drawn eyebrows and the concern in her voice:

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." At least Harry's tone is convincing. Even if McGonagall, Head of Gryffindor House, knows when someone won't say otherwise. For now, she turns away.

Harry watches as she says a string of words in a foreign language, though still with a noticeable English accent that makes yet another part of him he didn't know existed cringe.

"Why do you use a wand to cast a spell and what did you just say?"

The way to to the Leaky Cauldron is very long but just barely enough for Professor McGonagall to sufficiently answer all of Harry's most urgent questions.

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

"-to muggles it looks like an old, withered ruin surrounded by warning signs."

"What's a muggle? Sounds like a name I'd give to a booger."

McGonagall is unimpressed to the fullest and her expression perfectly conveys as much. Harry doesn't break eye contact.

(Turns out Professor Dumbledore had avoided certain magical terms when writing Harry back, as to not dump too much potentially confusing information on the then completely uninformed boy at once.)

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

"I'm not sure I want to say 'muggle', though."

"Why is that?"

"Aren't wizards just muggles but with magic instead of science and technology? From what you told me, it seems that wizards use magic like normal people use technology to get around. So why should one be put down with a term like that when they're-"

(_'Equally as worthless_')

"...technically the same?"

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

When he learns that he won't be allowed an own broom until he's a second year, he isn't disappointed. He'll get his hands on one either way.

_(He is this close to flying and nobody will take that from him)_

_(...But will he ever get to use his own wings again?)_

Something taints Harry's good disposition after he learned that he will still take flight classes in first year.

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

They get off the bus and, after thoroughly letting him in on the Leaky Cauldron's importance, McGonagall leads the way there. Presumably. Checking his surroundings, Harry doesn't see anything even remotely resembling a pub in this abandoned, though surprisingly clean, back alley. He starts wondering but McGonagall is quick to explain the situation.

"Mr. Potter, there is one more thing that you must know", McGonagall starts off and Harry looks up at her. Her tone is different, more emotional than factual, like it has been up until now.

She stops walking and casts him a look. She needs to inform him and though these are not ideal circumstances, there could be way worse ways for Harry to learn about his history.

"I want to tell you here, where we are unwatched. But before that..."

She slips her wand into her hand and Harry's impatience to also get a wand holster like her that'll enable him to do this trick once he has a wand bubbles up again. He watches McGonagall cast another series of privacy spells and wards and allows himself to state the obvious.

"We're not around the _Leaky Cauldron_, are we."

She conjures two straight-backed wooden chairs and he takes his place, his backpack still on. She does too.

"No", McGonagall answers, while retracting her wand, a movement closely observed.

"It is important for you to learn of what truly happened to your parents and it is best for you to do so before we enter the wizarding world."

She sees him stiffen, she doesn't see why. McGonagall doesn't know better than to assume that he is preparing himself for the sad conversation that will follow.

Behind his steady façade, Harry is fuming. Of _course_ the Dursleys would lie to him about why he even ended up with them in the first place, of coursethey wouldn't tell him why he had to endure all their _shit_.

"Please continue" is all he brings out.

Taking it slow, as to not unnecessarily upset him any further, Professor McGonagall tells Harry his and his parents' true story, how he got his scar and how he came to live with his relatives. He never once looks away from her and McGonagall comes to realise that he is in to way saddened or upset. These are not emotions fit to describe the look in his eyes. He just takes everything in wordlessly.

Until, after she is done, he speaks up:

"What's his name?"

McGonagall just heaves a sigh.

"It's not a good question to ask."

"He gave himself a name", Harry goes on, unwavering. "He threw his old self away and I want to know what he became instead. If you could tell me his name."

"But you must never say it out loud, have you understood me?"

She takes his silence as a yes.

"His name was Voldemort."

_(''Flight from death'')_

_(What do they think they are, to give themselves such titles)_

Eventually, Harry just nods. He then straightens up and his expression grows more cheerful.

"Is that all? Can we go on?"

McGonagall is at a loss for words, she can't help but stare at him.

"I must say, you are taking this differently from what I expected."

Taken by surprise, Harry lets out an "oh" and although his cheerfulness retreats a little, he still has an eager air about him. He can't wait to finally get to know the wizarding world and dwelling upon nonexistent feelings for his parents, whom he never met after his first year, is not something he is up to do.

"The thing is", Harry says, and he knows what he wants to say next and the exact words come out but there's a foreign tinge to them that is not quite fully _Harry_\- "How can I mourn the loss of someone I never knew?"

(_Exactly)_

_(He thought he knew his brethren, he thought he could trust his fellow archangels, he shouldn't have, so why should he mourn their loss-)_

His words carry no ill intent - they are too quiet to be heard by anyone else -, that is why the simple truth hits so hard. McGonagall turns away, pressing her eyes shut.

That James' and Lily's son never got to know and love them as the wonderful people they were-

She needs a moment to take a deep breath, now isn't the time-

Ignoring the burning sensation in her eyes, McGonagall faces Harry again and talks in a tone that is once more purely that of a teacher; Lecturing, strictly informative, with the emotions held at bay.

"No, this is not all, one last thing is left. You, Harry Potter, are famous in our world."

McGonagall watches as the last bit of cheerfulness abruptly falls away from him. She makes a mental note of that.

"You are the one who, although unconsciously, defeated the darkest wizard who ever existed and, on top of that, you are the first person in recorded, centuries-old history who survived the killing curse. You are featured in books and regularly talked about. Every last witch and wizard knows you for your name, your deed and your lighting scar."

Yes, his cheerfulness is gone, and something else has taken its stead. Harry's mouth is drawn in a thin line and his eyebrows furrow. With his pupils constricted, his gaze appears even more piercing.

Just when Harry thought he would be normal, he had a place to fit in...

Letting out a long breath he held, Harry slumps down with his eyes closed and his elbows on his knees. Along with his posture his expression relaxes, but not before letting out a dry laugh.

Of course, he just can't seem to be able to live an ordinary life. Eh, might as well take what he's got.

And with that, Harry stands up.

"If that's all, I'm ready. We can go."

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

This is more like it, Harry thinks, while inspecting the entrance to the _Leaky Cauldron_. They really are standing in front of what looks to be a pub, not in some remote alley.

This is not like it, Harry thinks while comparing the actual inside to the mental image he's made. It's dark and kind of stuffy in here, slightly unsettling. True, the Leaky Cauldron does look as grubby on the outside too, but that could have been due to the circumstances of it having to be hidden, with magic one surely could... liven this place up a little.

McGonagall keeps going for the bar. She throws a look back and doesn't repress he tiny smile when she sees Harry standing a little back, taking everything in with wide eyes. Her smile vanishes when she notices how the other patrons' chatter dies down.

Maybe Harry notices the several stares directed at him, because he quickly snaps out of it and scurries to her side at the bar.

"Professor McGonagall", Tom the bartender greets warmly, putting away a wipe he'd been using. "What an honour, it's been a few months now. On Hogwarts business, I presume?"

McGonagall nods, answering "Hello, Tom. And Yes. On that matter, have you seen Hagrid pass this way?"

"He came by. In fact, you missed him by a few minutes."

While they are talking, Harry freezes. Without any reason to be seen around. But something is up, of that he is sure, although he can't tell why he knows. His breath picks up just a little and he tries to inconspicuously look around.

The way some of the patrons have abandoned their discussions to outright stare at him is not the source of his discomfort, nor is it the poorly lit and narrow room (he doesn't do well in enclosed, dark spaces).

Something feels wrong. It lingers in the air, faint but more than enough for Harry to pick up on. And that is all he can tell, though he doesn't understand why.

"...bless my soul, is that Harry Potter?"

"Tom-"

What little fragments of conversation still go on fall silent.

The old bartender hurries out from behind the bar, rushing toward Harry and seizing his hand, tears in his eyes.

"Welcome back, Mr. Potter, welcome back."

A spell is broken and the scraping of chairs announces every other patron who stands up and hurries to greet Harry.

"Mr. Potter, what an honour", a woman - no, a witch -says, vigorously shaking his hand.

"Doris Crockford, Mr. Potter, can't believe I'm meeting you at last", this time the witch speaking is of an higher age.

"So proud, Mr. Potter, I'm just so proud", a bulky wizard exclaims.

McGonagall did good to tell him of his status, though in hindsight Harry has the feeling it was more of a warning.

"Always wanted to shake your hand - I'm all of a flutter."

"How long have we awaited this day, my family and I are in your debt, Mr. Potter."

"Delighted, Mr. Potter, just can't tell you, Diggle's the name, Dedalus Diggle."

They are just so many and they all are looking at him, he doesn't know them so they shouldn't be this close, and he can't catch up on shaking all these hands offered to him, acknowledging all the shoulder pats and there is this feeling still putting him on edge but at least it is not dark and silent here although the space seems to grow smaller-

"I have to interrupt", McGonagall's voice, laden with a teachers stern authority, calms the masses and they slow down, "Mr. Potter and I must move on."

A few wayward hands are still shaken and a few more curt words are exchanged on top of that, but it no longer is as crowded and the anxiety Harry built up has dissipated completely by the time they get a move on. It may also have to do with the fact that once they've stepped out of the pub's room, the lingering feeling has turned down in intensity.

He huffs out a breath, smiling weakly. "Thank you."

McGonagall nods. "You're welcome."

But as they both look forward again, Harry has little reason left to smile.

Today he went from being the outcasted misfit to a figure of hope, widely adored, idolised even. Still... He is everything except normal and he doesn't know how to feel about that.

But with a clearer idea of what awaits him, he is ready to go on and discover what the wizarding world has to offer.

He steps though the archway that has opened in the small courtyard's back wall.

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

McGonagall, who is leading the way, keeps a slower pace than usual. Even so, Harry trails several feet back, enthralled by seemingly everything, from the shops, their flashy and obviously magical merchandise displayed in the windows, minor details about their exterior, to the people around them.

At least they don't stop to stare at Harry. More looks is the last thing he needs right now.

Still, McGonagall keeps a watchful eye on their surroundings. But even if she didn't, it would have been an impossible feat to miss the massive silhouette parting its way trough the masses. Which is why Harry is torn away from observing_ Potage's Cauldron Shop._

"Hello, Hagrid", McGonagall greets the mountain of a man, who has stopped in front of her and is looking down. "Are you just coming from Gringotts?"

"Greetings, Professor. Yeh, I'm on m'way back. Ya kno', with everything."

"That's excellent." McGonagall feels a presence by her side. "We are just on our way there too."

Hagrid processes the 'we' and as he looks further down, his unasked question is answered. Under his shifting beard a beaming smile takes over.

"Gallopin' Gorgons, Harry, is tha' really you?"

A little unsure Harry tilts his head. This man knows him, but in a different way than his admirers back at the Cauldron.

A pat on his shoulders that almost brings him to his knees later and Hagrid continues.

"My, how you've grown. Las' time I saw you, you was only a baby," the giant says. "Yeh look a lot like yer dad, but yeh've got yer mum's eyes."

Harry kind of appreciates the gruff friendliness, though he is at a loss for words. Until, finally-

"Who are you?"

"True, I haven't introduced meself. Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts."

He holds out an enormous hand and shakes Harry's whole arm.

"But... how do you know me? 'Sides the thing with my name and scar, I mean?"

"Yeh don' kno'...? T'was me who brought you teh yer-"

At this point McGonagall intercepts.

"Hagrid, if I may. You see, we are in a bit of a... special situation. It's also why I am here with Harry today, though I might have to let you in on it at another time."

Before Hagrid, subtlety not being enough one of his traits, can push the matter, Harry is McGonagall's saving grace. While, true, the people around them going about their own business pay them no mind, Hagrid's outburst upon learning about Harry's situation with his relatives here and now would have attracted a lot of unwanted attention.

Instead, Harry seizes the following pause as an opportunity to ask a question:

"Could I take a look at that?"

With a "hm?" Hagrid follows Harry's eyes to the Daily Prophethe's tucked under his elbow. The paper is almost completely covered by his massive arm but the bit that states the name gives Harry enough to piece together that this is a magic newspaper and his curiosity is piqued.

"There ya go. I'm through with it, it's all yours."

"What? No, I can't accept-"

"O' course yeh can. There ya go. And speaking o' which, I've got somethin' else for yeh. Your birthday is real soon, right?"

Harry, still tightly holding the Daily Prophet, looks up at Hagrid with an incredulous expression. McGonagall decides to stay out of this.

Except for when she throws Hagrid a sidelong glance at his mention of his cat allergy.

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

Harry has stopped thanking Hagrid profusely the moment his eyes landed on the white feathers behind the bars. Since then he's been silent.

Now out of the shop, he wordlessly opens up the snowy owl's cage. She raises her head from under her wing upon hearing the sound of metal scraping on metal and blinks at Harry with sleepy eyes. Yet there is intelligence behind them.

"Come out. You don't need to stay in there."

A few moments pass, during which Harry is scrutinized by today's second yellow gaze. Then the owl hops out onto his shoulder, nibbling on his ear softly before shifting positions onto the handle of his backpack. Harry doesn't see her but he feels her setting down, rustling her wings.

He goes and puts the cage away, in a dark corner between two shops. Hagrid and McGonagall, standing side by side, look at him as he returns.

"Thank you, Hagrid."

And this time he doesn't say it as the only response he has for being confronted with the surreal idea that someone bought him a gift.

Hagrid's black eyes twinkle with joy as he smiles down at Harry once more.

"Yeh don' need ta thank me at all."

Then he wraps Harry in a hug that disturbs the owl and that is tight enough to press his glasses against his eyelids, which leaves a murky stain in his field of vision. While Harry takes off his glasses to wipe them clean with his shirt's hem, he misses the urgent look McGonagall throws Hagrid's way.

"Now, 'm terribly sorry but I've got ter go", Hagrid says. "Got some business teh take care of. T'was wonderful, meeting ya again. See ya around an' don't miss yer train, ya hear me?"

Harry chuckles as he waves Hagrid back, his entire body aching from that bone-crushing hug. The owl is audibly fluttering back onto her makeshift backpack-porch, the fact that she can even be heard testimony to her disgruntlement.

On the way to Gringotts again, he pulls out the _Prophet_ from under his arm (his arm doesn't even cover quarter of it) and asks McGonagall a burning question about the headline:

"It says 'othermagics' here. Are there several types of magic?"

McGonagall takes the paper from him and looks at the front headline:

_After Five Years: 'Study Of Othermagics' Finally Returns To Hogwarts' Curriculum_

And under that, a secondary headline states:

_Professor Jaeger, experienced in dealing with othermagical creatures, is to come to Hogwarts and teach all years about the dangers of involvement with so-called 'muggle magic'._

"Also, what is the 'Study Of Othermagics'? And what do they mean by 'muggle-magic'?"

McGonagall gives Harry the paper back. He is listening very closely to what she says next.

"I will have to go far back with the explanation. You see, the magic we can wield branches. We have developed numerous magical fields, from Potions over Transfiguration to Runes and countless more. But it always remains that it is 'our', so to speak, magic. Even magical creatures fundamentally share the same magic like us, although the ways they utilise or manifest it can wildly differ from ours. You follow?"

Harry nods.

"Now, othermagic, or alternate magic if you will, exists and we are aware of it. In our society, the terms 'alternate magic' and 'othermagic' are widely known but very rarely talked about because, and you were right in your assumption, Mr. Potter, alternate magic is indeed a completely different breed of magic from what we are accustomed to. And we prefer to avoid these instances of so-called 'othermagic' at all costs, for they are oftentimes lethal and we know exceedingly little about them.

"However, what we do know, is that even so, we can separate othermagic into two cathegories: Cast othermagic and othermagic that makes up othermagical creatures. Cast othermagic can simply be classified as magical feats completed by entities neither witch, wizard nor magical creature. It is even more obscure than the Dark Arts, with so few instances of it known to us that some dismiss it as nonexistent."

McGonagall pauses and carefully puts her next words together.

"But it is the othermagical creatures that are the truly dangerous ones, because if you were to encounter one, you would have no magical means at all to defend yourself. More on that soon. Of what we know, such creatures are highly aggressive and, contrary to the magical creatures that we are familiar with, many othermagical ones can easily disguise themselves as perfectly inconspicuous humans and then let their true nature show when they are about to kill.

"As stated previously, our creatures, while they can be just as lethal, still are part of our world. They still carry, at their core, the same magic as us. Othermagical creatures don't and whatever foreign power it is that makes them up, it doesn't mix well at all with normal magic. Magic repels othermagic and vice versa. And the symptoms of this adverse reaction are always the same, as reported without fail by every witch and wizard lucky enough to have survived an encounter with an othermagical creature: They grow weak, but only magicwise, to the point where they are not at all capable of casting a spell or using their magic any other way, although they can still move and speak freely. The same goes for the creature, it is said to slow down and grow weaker. But it usually is at a physical advantage, be it due to fangs, claws or built and, as the witch or wizard is rendered fully defenceless without their magic, it can still attack and kill."

Harry doesn't look green, only intrigued, so McGonagall continues, because this is one grim reality every witch and wizard needs to know about.

"Just as with ours, othermagical creatures are of many different species. We know of othermagical werewolves, vampires and others, some of which also have magical counterparts. But if you compare two creatures of the same name, though one magical and one othermagical, you would immediately see that they differ in many ways. Othermagical creatures have certain physical and fatal weaknesses unique to them, that their magical counterparts don't have, and during an encounter with one it can be lifesaving to know about them.

"And this is where our 'Study Of Othermagics' becomes important. You are taught how to fend off othermagical creatures, should you ever encounter one. Though, as this headline states, we haven't found someone to teach it in the last five years because qualified teachers are hard to come by. The keyword for the reason being specifically 'muggle magic'. It's another name some used to describe alternate or othermagic, stemming from the fact that it is more probable to find in areas not populated by us and our magic but by muggles.

"You now know that our magic and theirs is repellent, which is why othermagical creatures prefer to attack muggles and avoid us, just like we avoid them. It seemingly is as detrimental for them to grow weak as it is for us. And because we also have no means at all to trace them, we are also unable to obliviate their muggle victims - delete their memories, that is. There are relatively few othermagical creatures, few enough that knowledge about their actual existence isn't common among muggles at all. Even so, there are groups of muggles aware about them and even hunting and killing them for a living. It took quite the history between our society and their groups to reach the consensus that no good is done by us obliviating them, so these creature-hunting muggles are the only ones worldwide that know of our society's existence. They and a select few muggle government officials, but that's something taught in the elective Muggle Studies course. And it is those few hunting muggles we always are after to offer a teaching position to, because they have much deeper knowledge about how to survive an encounter with an othermagical creature without using magical means."

Harry needs a minute to process everything.

Finally, he rather states than asks:

"And Professor Jaeger is one such nonmagical. One who hunts and knows about them and us."

A pained look crosses McGonagall's face.

"Indeed. But to be frank, I fear that we will not get to offer the 'Study Of Othermagics' this year either."

"Why not?"

"We have not heard back from Professor Jaeger in a few weeks by now and, what with the live he leads, that may not be a good sign."

The rest of the way to Gringotts they walk in silence.

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

With everything that he has seen, heard and learned since then, it surprises Harry himself that he immediately recognises the bad feeling from back at the _Leaky Cauldron._

Only it is so much worse this time around, harder to grasp yet so much more intense. Harry throws a look over his shoulder, to Gringotts' underground tunnels they are leaving behind just now.

(_Something is **wrong**_)

Luckily for him, McGonagall mistakes his tensing posture and deep, strained breathing for him fighting cart-sickness.

She doesn't mistake the deeply alarmed looks of the Goblins, however, as they ignore the indignant wizardfolk's shouts while they have them magically checked then thrown out of Gringotts altogether.

So in a way all his initial gawking did pay off, he memorized the street's layout that way Harry muses, after assuring McGonagall that he knows the way back to _Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasionsalone_.

Because Professor McGonagall stays back at Gringotts to, in her words, ensure something. (Now without her watchful presence keeping nosey people away, Harry quickly learns to arrange his bangs in a way that they cover his scar.)

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

Harry finds these robes kind of ridiculous but then again, he is the one standing out with his regular clothes. Nonetheless, he's thankful that he is the only one around, save for the witch pinning up his robes.

Then Madam Malkins brings another boy in and starts fitting him up as well.

It occurs to Harry that this is the closest he's come to another magical kid his age and he is just contemplating whether or not to say something, when the pale boy speaks up:

"Hello. Hogwarts too?"

That settles it then.

"Yup."

He wants to add something to make a bit of conversation and perhaps paint himself a picture of what someone his age but magical is like but the boy is more adversed at making conversation. Though in his own way.

"My father's next door buying my books and mother's up the street looking at wands," says the boy in a bored, drawling voice. "Then I'm going to drag them off to look at racing brooms. I don't see why first years can't have their own. I think I'll bully father into getting me one and I'll smuggle it in somehow. Have you got your own broom?"

Lucky Harry, he just hasto meet wizarding Dudley on his first day, hasn't he.

"No."

"Hah, ever even sat and flew on one? Play Quidditch at all?"

"No," Harry says again purposefully not providing the slightly snobbish boy with a clarification and not seeing the appeal in Quidditch, as briefly explained to him by McGonagall on the way, either. (She had worn a strangely sad look upon hearing his thoughts about Quidditch.) (But why bind himself to rules, and be they a silly game's, when he will finally be up in the air and _free_?)

"I do - Father says it's a crime if I'm not picked to play for my house, and I must say, I agree. Know what house you'll be in yet?"

"I don't have any idea but if I have to bet, it's gonna be one of the already existing ones."

Harry smirks at him, maybe the guy has humour.

"You would make a great Ravenclaw like that, always ready with some smartypants answer."

Dry as he is, he's picked up on it, if his less drawling tone is any indication. Not exactly wizarding Dudley then.

"What about your house?"

"I know I'll be in Slytherin, all our family have been - imagine being in Hufflepuff, I think I'd leave, wouldn't you?"

"What's wrong with Hufflepuff? Their qualities are important to have as well."

_(His family could certainly use some_ loyalty)

The boy just raises an eyebrow. Harry goes on.

"'Sides, it does sound kind of illogical to go into one specific house just because the family did."

"You obviously have not seen me before, have you. I am Draco Malfoy."

Draco Malfoy is looking at him, obviously expecting a reaction Harry can't come up with.

After moments of blank staring, Harry settles for a simple "I heard that."

"But nothing more, if your reaction is anything to go by. Where'd you grow up to not have heard that name, with muggles? Is your name also some unimportant, dirty muggle import?"

They were just starting to get on nicely. Does he have to throw everything out of the window? Harry could play the I'm-a-bigger-fish-game. But he doesn't. It'll be fun to watch it play out in due time anyway.

Draco watches the other go silent and assumes his questions hit home. Too bad, he presumes, the green-eyed boy could have been someone actually interesting to associate with, hadn't he been some muggleborn noname.

Malfoy turns away to look out the window, chin raised and mouth drawn in a tight line.

Harry huffs and looks away too.

"Alright, you do you then."

Harry's robes are ready first. Malfoy looks over as he goes over to where his backpack with accompanying owl is leaning against the wall and holds out his arm for her to fly onto.

Silver eyes watch on as Harry maneuvers around with the owl perked on his elbow, stuffing his wizarding robes into his muggle backpack.

Malfoy sneers.

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

"Is everything alright at Gringotts?"

"It is not my place to answer that, Mr. Potter, although be assured that you have nothing to fear."

"But something is up."

That Harry states that as a fact rather than an answer takes McGonagall aback.

"How can you be so sure of that?"

"I have a feeling that I know isn't false. You don't need to ask because even I don't know, let's just say it's a gut feeling. Also, and I don't mean to offend you, Professor, but you seem a little... shaken up."

It is barely noticeable, the only telling signs being the way her eyes oftentimes scan their surroundings, even more intensely than until now, and the guarded way she holds her shoulders.

"Mr. Potter, you are more observant than I initially took you for, that I must give you. But let me assure you once again that you needn't worry because matters are being taken care of and you are not concerned. Now, we do have a list of required items to buy. You have your robes already? Good-"

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

This morning, Harry assumed that only the backpack would be sufficient. Dragged down by the weight of his bursting full backpack and the cauldron in which he stores everything else that doesn't fit, Harry doesn't think it's funny. Until McGonagall puts a weightlifting charm on everything. Now he can laugh.

They have bought everything on the list (McGonagall's mental one, not the paper list, she knows the required materials for first years by heart). Everything that is left is the wand.

Spotting and heading to the wand shop, Harry's feelings are a little mixed. He has grown to love the familiarity of the magic pulse he felt when practicing his magic all these years, although he now remembers it with a bitter taste, after McGonagall explained to him that that 'pulse' is actually his magic struggling to surface and manifest.

He needs a wand to amplify his magic, so he can cast easier, faster and more efficient. But he will miss his little second pulse, the sign for him that he is doing what kept him safe and gave him an edge.

Made him happy.

They enter _Ollivander's: Makers of Fine Wands Since 382 BC in Diagon Alley._ Harry looks around, eager to take in everything. A second passes before he jerks to look back at one certain spot again. Harry's gaze has just swept over the old man without noticing him, he just fits in so well with his surroundings.

The man then steps forward from his spot between two shelves at the back.

"Good afternoon", his soft voice fills out the room and McGonagall, seemingly not having noticed him prior, turns around, almost too quick for the eye to follow, and faces him. The arm with the wand holster under the sleeve is angled.

"Ah, Minerva McGonagall, nine and a half inches, fir wood and dragon heartstring, stiff. How are you faring?"

"Still as formidable as the day I bought it, Ollivander", McGonagall recovers smoothly.

Ollivander then shifts his focus to Harry.

"Ah yes", he says. "Yes, yes. I thought I'd be seeing you soon. Harry Potter."

How does he know? Harry has his scar carefully covered by his bangs.

"You have your mother's eyes." Oh. "It seems only yesterday she was in here herself, buying her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. Nice wand for charm work."

Ollivander goes into detail about the wands he sold to his father and even Voldemort.

And Harry can't help but wonder just how old this man is.

"Let us begin here, shall we. Mr. Potter, which is your wand arm?"

"Wh- oh. I kind of use them both?"

"Well, well, that's not unheard of. Now then, hold out whichever hand you like."

Harry gives his left and with that, it begins.

Wand after wand after another wand he tries, feeling more foolish by the minute. On some spindly chair a mountain of tried wands keeps reaching new heights. Harry tries wands of many cores, woods, lengths and strengths but with each wand he touches he just doesn't feel like it fits him.

Until, finally, with the glee he has built up during all of Harry's rejections, Ollivander exclaims:

"Tricky customer, eh? Not to worry, we'll find the perfect match here somewhere - I wonder, now - yes, why not - unusual combination - holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple."

The way he says that lifts Harry's hopes.

However this wand is no match either.

And so it goes on, with Ollivander now adapting a determined undertone. Whatever leads the wandmaker is following, this time they have something to do with the wand cores, as Harry gets to specifically try his way trough wands with certain cores, all the while listening to Ollivander explain the core properties.

"Dragon heartstrings make fierce wands and are likely to form a strong bond with their wielder, though that also means that they can change loyalty."

Then,

"Wands of a phoenix feather are capable of great ranges of magic. But such cores are rare and many have complained that these wands sometimes act on their own accord."

And then,

"Unicorn hair makes for sensible wands, able to accomplish marvellous feats if treated right."

None match. Then Ollivander goes into the back to get one more wand and oddly enough he doesn't say beforehand of what core it will be.

He hands him one more wand. Though Harry has caught sight of several longer wands around the shop, the ones he has tried up until now have been of average length. This one is one of the longer ones, if not the longest, several inches over all the others up until now.

He takes it.

"Applewood tends to not be used as a wand material very often. Owners of such wands, however, are said to be long-lived and of great personal charm."

But Harry doesn't hear Ollivander talking. He is too overwhelmed and not by sparks flying and gleaming or the wand demonstrating some other fantastical feat proving its newly formed bond because nothing of the sort happened - it already belonged.

This wand is _his_.

_(It will not change loyalty, it belongs to its wielder alone. It will not act on its own accord for it is not in any way sentient, it being an extension of its wielder. And an uncountable amount of time being used against the most vile and dark things in existence before laying forgotten for millennia in Hell have proven its durability. It will always function how it has to, no matter how right it is treated or not)_

The wood feels slightly cool under his touch. Harry examines the wand's simple design, how it is not carved or polished but it still gleams and how its even wood steadily grows narrow toward the tip. It's slim, almost delicate looking, but he knows it won't break.

"This one's mine."

"Are you sure?", Ollivander inquires.

"_Yes_," Harry answers immediately, gripping his wand tightly, a smile finding its way onto his face. "This wand is mine." And he doesn't want to let go of it.

Ollivander hums.

"Ah yes, applewood, 16 and a half inches, extraordinarily long and unyielding."

He pauses shortly.

"And unicorn hair at its core."

Harry happily pays for it and they leave.

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

The late afternoon sun hangs low in the sky but Harry has just one more thing left to buy.

"Professor McGonagall?"

"Yes?"

"Where exactly did you get your wand holster from? I need one too, I'd prefer to be able to draw and sheathe my wand like you do."

"That may look easy but make no mistake, it takes a great amount of practice and patience. It may take you well over a few months to get the hang of it. Longer to do it without a second thought."

"Hm. I guess I'll have something to do for the remainder of summer vacation then."

Turns out Harry's new wand is too long for a regular strap-on wand holster that reaches over the underarm, so he has to get the more expensive (and compact) version with an integrated extension charm. Good thing he has money now.

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

Had Harry learned earlier that the Leaky Cauldron also rents out rooms, Professor McGonagall wouldn't have had to accompany him back to their original meeting point at Privet Park's entrance. As it is, it is already dark by the time they arrive. Contrary to their way towards the Cauldron this midday, the way back is spent in silence.

Harry is exhausted and he has a lot to think about. But he could not be happier, he realises as he plays around with the holster containing his wand. It is made of leather and the extension charm enables it to be of a shorter size than others. In fact, it looks a lot like a leather cuff. Too bad he can't try working with it on the subway, the privacy spells McGonagall put in place again aside.

They reach the park's entrance gate and to Harry it seems like another lifetime when he sat there close by on a bench, waiting and wondering what would await him. From here on, he will go alone. It's time to bid Professor McGonagall goodbye for a month.

Harry sighs and looks up at McGonagall, smiling a little, he is too tired for much more.

"Thank you very much. For everything."

"You don't need to thank me at all, Mr. Potter. I expect you on the first of September. Until then be very careful with your wand and other magical possessions and don't let them fall into muggle hands."

"I won't. Goodbye, Professor."

When Harry turns to look back, he catches sight of a grey tabby cat's tail disappearing in the shadows.

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

He can finally tell what it is about that bad feeling he had at the Cauldron and at Gringotts, that made it indescribable. It simply wasn't physical, even though his reactions to it were.

But the twist in his gut upon entering number four's front door and finding both Petunia and Vernon waiting for him sure as anything is physical.

And Harry just stands there, with his owl, the full backpack and cauldron.

They look more than ever before like strangers, rather than Harry's relatives. He has never seen these looks on their faces until now.

Petunia looks at Harry with an expression akin to the one she wears when out to observe every last triviality concerning every last neighbour. But this time she lacks the (however questionable) liveliness she does that with, so what is left is a calculating stare not unlike Harry's own.

Vernon's face is a mask, an ugly, poorly composed one. Cracks in his expressionless facade are his twitching eyelid, a bulging vein on his forehead and the working muscles in his jaw.

Long seconds pass. Through the open door behind Harry crickets can be heard but safe for them it is silent. Petunia and Vernon are just standing there, Vernon's broad frame blocking the stairs leading up to the floor on which Harry's room is.

Air circulation eventually slams the door shut, it may as well have locked Harry up and thrown away the key.

"You got that letter."

Harry forgets how to function after registering Petunia's words. _W-what? She can't possibly be talking about_-

"What letter?"

Harry goes for genuine confusion in his tone but it shifts into wariness midway as he watches her gaze at his owl and magical luggage with an unsettling recognition lighting her eyes.

"The letter. The one that every witch and wizard gets around the time of their eleventh birthday, the one that accepts them into Hogw- _that school_."

Many reactions storm his mind, one of them is the bolt that cuts trough them all, bright and clear and furious.

Petunia knows. All this time, she _knew_.

Something in Harry grows very cold and very still and very sharp, suddenly this is the same night he confronted them to get his own room all over again.

Letting out a breath that echoes like a hiss, he turns to snap at Vernon.

"Stop looking at me like that or do you want a repeat from a few years ago? What do you think happens when enough power to force a jaw closed shut is instead focused on the eyeballs?"

Vernon's mask is gone and an expression of rage that is so thoroughly him replaces it, albeit tainted by fear.

"We let you live in our house and this is what you do with that, you ungrateful little bas-"

It is in his hand in an instant. Harry points his wand directly at Vernon's heart, all the while daring him with one look alone. The large man several times his weight has stopped dead in his tracks the second he laid eyes on the long piece of wood that catches and plays with the light in a way it shouldn't.

"Go on. _Finish that sentence._"

Narrowed green eyes find wide pale ones, as Harry looks at Petunia while continuing.

"Or don't, for all I bloody care. Because I've had _enough. Get out of my way_."

Harry almost wishes for Vernon not to comply, while he launches towards his direction, wand held out in front of him. The thought of impaling him is a satisfying one. As it is, Vernon stumbles aside and the way up the stairs is free for Harry to storm up.

Apparently the owl lost her grip on his backpack, because he turns around to see her white shape flying up after hearing shouting of "THIS BLASTED OWL!" coming from downstairs. He stops running after tearing open the door to his room. Harry holds out his elbow for the owl who comes sailing up to him and the second she lands, he slams his door shut.

As many clothes as possible, toothbrush and paste, pencilcase and the Hogwarts acceptance letter from under the floorboard - it all gets stuffed into the string bag Harry used to carry his clothes for PE around in. He throws it over his shoulder, picks up the cauldron, and goes to leave, wand still outheld.

Harry is almost out of his room when he remembers that the space under the floorboard has one last dark crevice that still contains something.

Thus he goes back to grab the old paper. One side doesn't sport crayon drawings, so the faint scar-like marks from where the paper was once mended are visible there.

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

The few people still underway this late on the subway are too tired to stare at the boy with the owl on his backpack, the stick in his hand and the cauldron full with oddly shaped packages next to him. Good, because Harry too is tired to give a damn.

Along with his mood, his luggage grows heavier by the minute, because McGonagall's weightlifting charm begins to grow weak.

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

"My my, Mr. Potter, aren't you a tad too young to be out this late? Did something happen?"

"Tom, I have money and I need a room. That's all you need to know."

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

Even curled up in the surprisingly soft bed in one of the Cauldron's guest rooms, Harry would not sleep peacefully tonight.

The dreams are of times bygone but not of the good ones.

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

_After Amara was sealed away, they thought that was it. With the Darkness gone, Creation would flourish._

_But then Eve brought the monsters into being._

_Eve, like all other leviathans, had been corrupted by Amara, turned from God's Light and transformed into something dark that would devour everything that was Created of light. But then again, Eve was different from other leviathans. Be it a different she was Created with or be it something that awakened within her upon being touched by Amara, in the end it did not matter._

_She birthed the Alphas and Amara's Darkness was within them and their kinds too, though be it to a lesser extent._

_Amara's Darkness may be but a shadow in the monster's selves, yet they still harboured a certain thirst for destruction. And with the Darkness that had evolved into their own type of power within them, the monsters had an edge over everything else that lived on Earth at that point. Where everything else was natural, they were above it, supernatural._

_God could have ordered His archangels to wipe them off the face of the Earth, but He didn't. He saw potential and decided to let them live, though He couldn't have them endanger His greatest achievement. Instead, He instructed His archangels to do something else._

_They planted the roots for magic. By the power of their Grace, the archangels laid the foundation for what was to evolve into magic and they kept their watch on it, as they and their Garrisons had overseen the birth and death of many a galaxy before, they were to assure that it would grow, evolve and remain powerful enough to keep Eve's offsprings at bay._

_The supernatural originates from Amara, The Darkness. Magic originates from God, The Light. And as opposites, Light and Dark are bound to repel each other._

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

_'Samael-'_

_'I don't need anything from you. Go.'_

_'I won't. Raphael is right. The Mark has been affecting you lately.'_

_'And just what makes you say that?'_

_'You are not yourself. You distance yourself from all of us but a select few and what it is that you say about the humans-'_

_'Silence, Gabriel! The lot of you, are you actually that ignorant? To not be able to admit that I am fully myself after I don't mindlessly follow every last one of Parent's rules?'_

_'We are only concerned.'_

_'Cut it. I shouldn't be the subject of your concern, Earth should. You don't see it yet, but some of our younger already siblings do. I do. Humanity will be the downfall of it all. Look how they already are attempting to twist the flora and fauna, even the energies we ourselves planted..._

_"...On Parent's command, of course. And now Parent keeps us from interfering, wiping them out, has us going against our own nature. Aren't you Their Messenger? How do you, Gabriel, not noticethat They are going down Their own path, that They are starting to disregard our kin? How long until They will discard or degrade us and how many of us will remain compliant? I hope for all our sakes that you too will see what is right in front of you soon.'_

_'...Oh, Samael. There is so much _you _don't see.'_

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

_'WHAT I DID WAS FOR THE BEST, SEE FOR YOURSELVES WHAT HUMANS REALLY ARE!'_

_Their wings move but they're useless against-_

_'YOU DON'T HAVE TO DO THIS, MICHAEL'_

_The Host is silent. Too fast are they Falling for even them to perceive what is around them._

_There only exists the pain that runs through their entire being._

_'MICHAEL!'_

_Through Hell they are dragged, still by the force of their Parent's word and Michaels obeying to it._

_There is nothing left within the them to fight. Broken wings loose their original pure white light as Hell takes hold and turns them an abhorrent new shade._

_Light is their Parent, Creating. Light are their siblings. Light is Heaven, where they belong. Light is them._

_'PARENT!_

_There is no light here._

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•


	4. I - (The Good) Start Of Year One

Chapter 4: I - (The Good) Start Of Year One

* * *

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

When Harry comes to the next morning at an ungodly hour, already sitting up on the bed, cold and with a racing heart, only one thing strikes him as odd.

The fact that he's cold.

Befuddled as he is from what little amount of not even restful sleep he got, it takes him a moment to even begin putting a finger on it.

Grasping his covers, they're warm. Resting his forehead on his arms, it feels warm too. The entire room is warm and he isn't.

It's also ungodly early, years of having to wake up at the right time by himself having made Harry an early riser. No matter how tired he is from, say, getting to know about a whole new world the day before, Harry's inner clock will not grant him sleep. Seeing as that is what preoccupies his brain, that is currently only capable of entertaining one single train of thought, he doesn't linger on the cold sensation after it gradually wears off.

It's not like one more quirk of his that he can't explain will kill him.

Slumping back into his pillow (it's _so soft_), he curses his inability to sleep in, seriously, why is he like this, he's gone to bed in the dead of night after the longest day in his life, if someone has every right to finally get a good night's sleepit's him but no he hasto always wake up early even if he could totally sleep in because he's on _summer vacation..._

The next time Harry wakes up, it's with significantly less sleep-deprived whining.

Stretching, he catches sight of the window and the pink sky outside. Frowning, Harry checks his watch. His frown deepens when the time confirms that it's not dawn but dusk outside.

Huh. That must've been well over twelve hours he's slept at one piece, he really must've been tired-

Scratching coming from the window interrupts his musings and he looks up to meet the owl's demanding gaze. She wasn't perched there a moment ago. Figures, owls really do fly quiet.

Watching her soar trough the skies over London until she's out of his sight, Harry wonders if it'll be worth it for him too if he goes out this late. But that'd mean he'd have to change out of his comfy pyjamas and leave the cozy room for that... No. He can afford a lazy day, so settles for reading through his schoolbooks, starting with _The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1)_.

Harry plans on going trough all his books. He is curious to see how magic completes or contradicts everything he has learned about the laws of nature and the world itself by now.

The first book has a section devoted to explaining the significance of proper wandholding and movement, which snaps his attention to the holster containing his wand that is still fixed on his wrist. Now that he acknowledges it, Harry notices how it's getting a little tight from being worn nonstop for over a day by now.

(Wait a moment, as of now, did he really spend more time sleeping with this thing on than actually awake?)

He can't really suppress the smirk as he takes the holster off and puts it on his other wrist. Perks of being ambidextrous.

However, his smirk vanishes as he flicks his wrist and the wand doesn't appear. He tries again. It slides out about halfway then gets stuck and Harry is left fiddling with it and pulling it out manually.

What was it that Professor McGonagall said yesterday? That it takes months of practice to get the hang of using a holster like this?

...Then why is one of his clearest memories of yesterday night him easily unsheathing his wand in one swift motion?

Harry tries again, but all of his efforts are nigh useless. He can't replicate his feat. Whatever enabled him in that moment simply isn't here now. He supposes he'll have to learn to do it the traditional way then, by practicing. For months - but it'll be worth it.

And practice he does for a while. A long one and he likes to think that he manages to slide the wand out just a tad quicker than at the beginning. Though it still gets stuck.

Eventually Harry gives in to his curiosity and returns to his schoolbooks. He would love to familiarise himself with the matter before the start of term. Quickly, he establishes that they don't differ that much from his regular schoolbooks, with there being some important key elements that he has to memorize before he can learn about everything else.

He takes out quill, ink bottle and parchment to quickly jot down everything important as he reads on-

To attempt to quickly jot down everything. Or not even quickly at all, to just try getting somewhat used to handling a quill.

How did the goblins yesterday at Gringotts make it look so easy? Because writing with a quill is a fleshed-out nightmare. Forget a ballpoint pen's smooth gliding, the quill won't draw a proper line if not moved with at least some pressure, which quickly grows painful and ink gets everywhere if Harry moves too fast when re-dipping every ten seconds. Not to mention the noise the quill makes as it painstakingly scratches along on the parchment, a feather should not sound like that-

Harry sighs as he searches for some pen in his bags but no, of course nothing is ever that easy.

By the end of what was not really a day, both his wrists ache from constantly switching the quill from one hand to another (downsides of being ambidextrous - and would you look at that, his left hand is full of ink), his eyes are strained from all that reading by candlelight and the owl's name is Hedwig. She likes the name, because she drops the dead rat she was about to gulf down upon being let back in in favor of softly pinching his ear.

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

The next day Harry completes his necessary shopping by buying a proper trunk. He also exchanges some nonmagical currency, maybe he will exit Diagon Alley in the coming weeks.

This time around there is nothing at Gringotts.

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

_Break-in of Gringotts Wizarding Bank_

Harry stares at the headline.

The date of the incident lies a few days back, it's also the day he was there with McGonagall.

It does fit in with how he experienced Gringotts back then. How tense the goblins were when they cleared the building, how tense McGonagall was later on after she'd gone back, likely to get a clear update on the situation.

But why would she get involved with what happened there in the first place?

And this dreadful sensation he felt, does it have to do with the culprit? It has to. He has been at Gringotts since and hasn't felt it again. And that whatever it is that has him this riled up can move around freely, a conclusion most unsettling, would also explain why the Cauldron has also been clear ever since.

What McGonagall told him comes back to the forefront of his mind:

_"You needn't worry because matters are being taken care of and you are not concerned."_

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

The next days are mostly spent enjoying and exploring what the magical side has to offer, though Knockturn Alley is not as thoroughly visited as Diagon Alley. Harry is not willing to risk visiting these rather dark corners too much. Sometimes he can't help but be put slightly on edge there, though nothing he encounters in Knockturn Alley sets him off as badly as whatever it was there at the Cauldron and his first visit to Gringotts.

Time passes by and it's not long before Harry starts to not only frequent the magical side, but the nonmagical as well.

Even with the drastic differences between both worlds, Harry can't help but notice that people here and there are still people; Children scream after not getting a toy racing car or a toy broom, people shake their heads when they read the prices of the robes or outfits displayed and groups of friends sit down together to enjoy an ice cream whether they're wizards or not. A man buried in his smartphone bumps into a woman and a wizard buried in his _Prophet_ bumps into a witch. Even the occasional person with the alternative fashion sense makes up for the more exceptional appearances one can spot in Diagon Alley.

Harry's current stop is a bookstore. After all, it's not just the magical books that are fascinating and he has years of having no real access to a good library or bookshop to make up for. He is curious to see what the books on fields like biology or physics have to offer, there was only so much the oversimplified school lesson plan could do to satisfy his fascination with how nature works.

Upon entering the vast lobby, a book in the corner of his eye catches Harry's attention as he walks past the 'Fantasy YA' shelf. He stops. Then looks.

The book his gaze lands on doesn't much differ from almost all the others displayed. It seems to be just as much of a kitschy romantic fantasy novel.

Taking it, Harry inspects what is depicted on the cover closer. It's not the topless, ripped man surrounded by a red glow, nor is it the voluptuous woman clutching his muscled arm, but something else. Something about this book attracted his attention mere moments ago. Question is, what?

The book's title font is very stylised. Large and finely curved silver letters read:_ The Call of Lucifer; Wings of undying Love_

Harry turns it around to see what's written on the back.

_Myrriah is a regular girl and Lucifer is the king of demons. She also hides many secrets, secrets that she cannot hold any longer after he sees something special in her and decides to make her his and his alone. But is she a regular girl after all? And can her love save him from the darkness he succumbed to? Or will he be lost forever? Read to find out..._

A sole review also made it's way onto the cover.

-'_Highly entertaining, top-notch literature right here'_, one Terry Rickster said.

...Remind himself again, just _why_ has he picked this book up? The judgmental old lady across the store, who decidedly abandoned her own business in favor of stink-eyeing him, is right. He shouldn't have.

Thatdoesn't mean he'll just take her dirty looks though. He makes a point of meeting her eyes with a blank face while clutching the book to his chest like something actually valuable, the cover and what's depicted on it very visible, and walking away. Maintaining the blank face while watching her expression circle trough the five stages of how-dare-you is well worth the struggle.

Harry rounds a corner, defaces some innocent shelf by depositing the book on it, before another thing catches his eye again.

Naturally, because this is a bookstore, it also sells colour-changing umbrellas. Among other niche items, all of which are displayed on a table.

He walks over to inspect one of the feathered pens there are. From a distance they can actually pass as quills; They are the size of one and the plastic feather looks surprisingly realistic. Except for the dreaded sharpened point of a regular quill, these are actual functional ballpoint pens. That look like quills.

Harry will never again shed a bad thought about the random crap bookstores sell for no apparent reason.

He is contemplating taking their entire stock, as it is more important than paying heed to the hurried footsteps around him. Until a girl shoulder-checks him, hard, but not mean.

"I-I'm sorry!", she stutters, her voice pitched by embarrassment. "I didn't mean to-"

Harry only shrugs. "Whatever. It's okay."

With that he turns back to his precious feather pens and she resumes hurrying towards the part of the bookstore she set her sights on. Trailing behind her are her resigned parents.

"Hermione", her father sighs, once they've reached her at the non-fiction shelves. "Please be more careful next time." And it's the only thing he says because he knows they can't bring their daughter to hold in her excitement around bookstores. They've learned that lesson by now.

Meanwhile Harry has decided that, no, he will not take their entire stock but just take off with two.

He still has some books he wants to take a look at. Books that preferably are not romantic fantasy novels. Or fiction, for that matter.

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

That same evening Harry quietly thanks his past self for having the common sense not to buy every book he'd deemed interesting back at that store, experimentally pressing his packed trunk shut is already a chore as is. In the same breath he curses his past self for not getting a trunk with an integrated Weightlifting Charm.

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

Maybe it's not yet the right time to attempt a spell. But Harry can't really muster the patience to wait until the year at Hogwarts starts anymore.

_Baubillious _is a simple spell with a simple wand motion going along with it. It casts harmless white sparks that can push something back a little at most.

Harry's first attempt is awkward, the incantation unsure and the motion a little off. He is too distracted imagining what the spell has to come out like and anticipating the pulse of magic in his chest.

What was that other thing McGonagall explained to him back then? It is his wand that channels his magic. He doesn't have to struggle to manifest it, the wand is the outlet he has to focus on.

His wand.

Harry grips it tightly on a passing whim. After a few moments he notices how the wood doesn't grow warm in his hand.

Harry attempts the spell again. While speaking and motioning, he reaches out for the power that he knows lies dormant within him, makes it reach out, and do what he wants, because this power is his alone to wield, a part of him and he can command it in whatever way he likes-

_(Once upon a time, when an elder sibling taught a younger one their tricks, these were the very basics they had their little sibling understand)_

Harry flinches in surprise at the stark brightness of the many sparks that erupt from his wand, turning everything in the room white for a brief moment.

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

The first of September finally rolls around.

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

That cab driver has no business making witty remarks a la "took what you lack in height and packed it into that suitcase, eh?" because it makes him painfully aware of his anything but grande height. He soothes _that_ thorn in his ego's side with the fact that he recalls reading about how boys hit their growth spurts rather late on. There is still hope.

The cab driver is alright in his books again though, after he helps Harry hoist his trunk onto a luggage carrier.

Of course the nonmagical people would stare at him with Hedwig on his carrier. She is not the lightning scar he can easily hide away under his bangs because apparently no one seems able to recognise Harry Potter by other facial features (except for McGonagall, Ollivander and Hagrid?)

He just hopes their eyes won't follow him when he passes straight trough a solid brick wall.

And then, at long last, Harry is finally there; Said brick wall.

This is it.

And without slowing at all he walks trough.

From one moment to the next the scrawny boy with the owl and the big trunk goes from standing out to fitting in perfectly.

He starts weaving his way along the platform and the scarlet train and as he passes them, he looks at robed and normally-clothed people alike, sees more children his own age than over all these weeks at Diagon Alley combined, observes the numerous cats and toads with their respective owners and notices how Hedwig is seemingly the only owl not in a cage. That stings a little.

Harry comes by small crowd, all of them students, eagerly gathering around a boy with dreadlocks and his curiosity is piqued. Making sure his bangs still hang over his forehead, he gets close to them.

"Give us a look, Lee, go on", someone from the gathered students urges.

The boy smugly lifts the lid of a box in his arms, and the people around him shriek and yell as something inside pokes out a long, hairy leg. Some pull back and bump into Harry who can't suppress a grin at their reaction. He debates getting closer to get a better look at the rest of the creature but decides to keep looking for a compartment that preferably doesn't have rows of students hanging out the windows chattering to their families.

When he finds one, an empty one, today he is lucky, there is no cab driver to help him with his trunk.

"Want a hand?"

Harry looks up at a freckled redhead.

"Yes", he pants, "much appreciated."

"Oy, Fred! C'mere and help!"

Fred, lookalike to the boy who is already with Harry, comes over and from then on it's quick work done quickly. But not thanks to Harry. Who does his best anyway.

"Thank you", he says, pushing his sweaty hair from his eyes. A moment later he curses himself.

"What's that?", the twin who is not Fred asks, pointing at the scar.

"Blimey," Fred exclaims, "Are you-"

"He is," the first twin goes again. "Aren't you?" he adds to Harry, who resigns.

"I'm many things."

"I mean, are you really-"

"That one guy too, yes."

They shoot each other looks and maybe- who is he kidding, his scar is right there for them to see.

"Alright then, oh whoever you might be, sadly we must take our leave-"

"Fred? George? Are you there?"

"-and that there's our cue. See ya 'round, Harry!"

With that, the one who Harry now knows to be George shouts back "Coming, Mum!" and they hop off the train.

From out his compartment's opened window he can see and hear them as they join their just as redheaded family. Their mother has just taken out her handkerchief and now closes in on a younger boy.

"Ron, you've got something on your nose."

"Aaah, has ickle Ronnie got somefink on his nosie?" Fred doesn't make Ron's situation better, as he unsuccessfully fights off his mother cleaning him.

"Shut up."

"Where's Percy?" asks their mother.

"He's coming now."

As if on command, who looks to be the oldest comes striding into sight. He has already changed into his billowing black Hogwarts robes, and Harry notices a shiny silver badge on his chest with the letter P on it.

"Can't stay long, Mother," he declares. "I'm up front, the prefects have got two compartments to themselves-"

"Oh, are you a prefect, Percy?" George butts in, with an air of great surprise. "You should have said something, we had no idea."

"Hang on, I think I remember him saying something about it," Fred says.

"Once-"

"Or twice-"

"A minute-"

"All summer-"

"Oh, shut up," snaps Percy the Prefect.

"How come Percy gets new robes, anyway?"

"Because he's a prefect," their mother says fondly. "All right, dear, well, have a good term and send me an owl when you get there."

She kisses Percy on the cheek and he leaves. Then she turns to the twins.

Harry leans back in his seat so they can't see him looking.

Something about hearing them going on, the teasing from the twins, how they rapidly sent jabs their older brother's way before he had them knock it off and lightly made fun of the younger- it is deeply comforting to Harry. In a strange way though. The same way it is comforting to know that he has this wand and the magic, always at the ready, that-

His fingers find a folded up paper in his pocket.

_(Like it or not, in the end their family is still a part of them)_

This time the flash in his mind doesn't throw him off. Instead a deep melancholy overcomes Harry, a feeling he thought he'd forgotten. Family... he only ever felt like this when he thought about how he maybe could have had a real family, during all those long hours in the darkness of the cupboard.

He feels along one of the lines marking where the paper was once torn.

How would his life play out, had Voldemort not killed his parents? Would he have had a sibling? Several maybe?

He'd love to have siblings. An older one who'd always have his back and vice versa, they'd make a perfect team. Maybe a middle sibling similar to him, they could trust each other. A younger one he could tease, but together they'd be unstoppable.

Instead he is alone.

It is a soul deep ache, maybe even deeper than that.

Who knows?

Harry doesn't.

In fact, what he has recently begun to push away, and quite effectively at that, now digs itself up again; There is a great deal about himself Harry doesn't know.

He feels the train starting to move and emerges from his thoughts, pushing them back down. Now is not the time. There will come another day when maybe even more things will make sense but now is not that day and Harry blinks himself back to the real world.

He lets go of the paper and takes his hand back out of his pocket.

"We'll send you a Hogwarts toilet seat!", Fred shouts his sister's way.

He wishes he hadn't spaced out so he could have a context for that one.

The train now slowly picks up speed and many waving hands and smiling or crying faces bid their families goodbye. Harry just looks up at Hedwig and she flies down from a rafter to settle into his lap.

The door of the compartment slides open and the youngest redheaded boy, Ron, comes in.

"Anyone sitting there?" he asks, pointing at the seat opposite Harry. "Everywhere else is full."

Harry shakes his head and the boy sits down. He glances at Harry and then looks quickly out of the window, pretending he hasn't looked. Harry holds in a snicker when he sees that he still has a black mark on his nose.

"Hey, Ron."

The twins are back.

"Listen, we're going down the middle of the train - Lee Jordan's got a giant tarantula down there."

"Right," mumbles Ron.

"Harry," says the other twin, "did we even introduce ourselves? Fred and George Weasley. And this is Ron, our brother. See you later, then.

"Bye," both Harry and Ron say. The twins slide the compartment door shut behind them.

"Are you really Harry Potter?" Ron blurts out.

"Yup."

"Oh-well, I thought it might be one of Fred and George's jokes. And have you really got- you know..."

He points at Harry's forehead.

Harry pulls back his bangs, wanting to get this over with. Ron stares.

"So that's where You-Know-Who-"

"Yes, but I can't remember it."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing." But Harry has never even tried remembering anything. That aside, now it's his turn to be pokey.

"What about you? Are all your family wizards?"

"Er- Yes, I think so," Ron shrugs. "I think Mom's got a second cousin who's an accountant, but we never talk about him. I've heard you went to live with muggles. What are they like?"

"Wait a second, does everyone in the wizarding world know every last little thing about me?"

At that, Ron stutters.

"I- uh, yes- I mean no! Well... We know that you defeated You-Know-Who and then went to live with muggles and you're supposed to go to Hogwarts soon, actually now, and that's it."

Harry watches as Ron shrinks back a little, ears red. He shrugs the matter off.

"Yeah, about your question: Some nonmagicals are horrible and many others are not. I'd actually say they are just like wizards. Except they use technology to get by instead of magic. Like, instead of using a spell to do something, there's likely a machine for it. Though there are some limits to it because technology can't break the laws of nature like magic can."

A strange look crosses Ron's face.

"So this technology thing can't transform stuff?"

"No", Harry answers, "Why?"

"It's just..." Ron trails off, paling remarkably. "Sometimes Fred and George used to transform my things-" a shudder shuts him up.

Harry decides to console him by saying "It must be nice though, having brothers. I mean sure, they must be a pain sometimes but on the other hand you're not alone, right?"

Ron snorts.

"With seven of us? You can bet the house is never quiet."

"...you have six brothers?"

"Five. And a sister. Actually, she was with us on the platform but she's still too young for Hogwarts."

This boy has six siblings. Harry can't believe how lucky he is. Said boy however looks gloomy.

"I'm the sixth in our family to go to Hogwarts. You could say I've got a lot to live up to. Bill and Charlie have already left- Bill was head boy and Charlie was captain of Quidditch. Now Percy's a prefect. Fred and George mess around a lot, but they still get really good marks and everyone thinks they're really funny. Everyone expects me to do as well as the others, but if I do, it's no big deal, because they did it first. You never get anything new, either, with five brothers. I've got Bill's old robes, Charlie's old wand, and Percy's old rat."

He pulls out a sleeping and very fat grey rat out of his jacket.

"His name's Scabbers and he's useless, he hardly ever wakes up. Percy got an owl from my dad for being made a prefect, but they couldn't aff- I mean, I got Scabbers instead."

Ron's ears go pink. He seems to think he's said too much, because goes back to staring out of the window.

Harry can see where he is coming from, though that doesn't mean he agrees.

"And even if you have so many brothers- so what? You're still you, not them. You don't need to copy or surpass them no matter what."

Ron is looking at him again, listening.

"Besides, what would you prefer: Growing up all alone but having boatloads of money that you can only spend on yourself because you know or have no one else? Or growing up always having someone else, even if you're not loaded? Believe me, not always having money is not the end of the world."

_('But being at war with the dear family is')_

Ron lets out a "hm" and Harry changes the topic, he'd like to keep on conversing rather than let silence settle in. Also, Ron seems interesting to talk to and he has an inkling the feeling is mutual.

"But hey. We're on our way to Hogwarts, we won't have to worry about anything major there-"

For some reason it feels strange saying that.

"-unless Voldemort comes back or something. I mean that place did sound pretty secure- what?"

"You said You-Know-Who's name!" says Ron, sounding both shocked and impressed. "I'd have thought you, of all people-"

"That I wouldn't say the name of a guy-" 'Who couldn't even kill a baby' would shock Ron even more, Harry goes for something else "-who is long gone? I don't see a point in it. Don't get me wrong though, I don't want to sound brave or something, parading the name around. Voldemort aside- stop that, c'mon he's dead- what do you think Hogwarts is like?"

From there on, they talk, exchanging impressions and expectations about Hogwarts, with Ron having way more to say than Harry, who doesn't have five brothers to tell him about it.

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

"By the way, this 'Study Of Othermagics', did any of your brothers have it?"

"Charlie, yes. Maybe Bill too, 'm not so sure anymore."

"What did they have to say about it?"

"I don't remember much except Charlie seemed upset. Which is weird, because I thought he likes everything to do with monsters. But maybe these kinds of monsters aren't for him, you know? Mum used to read us all kinds of stories about muggle monsters, too, but she stopped when Ginny had nightmares. I think it's scary that we'll have it this year."

"When I met Professor McGonagall, she said that it's possible that it won't be taught."

"You met Profes- wait, why not?"

"She did imply that the one who is supposed to teach it was killed."

"That's bloody insane! Whatever's out there, I just hope we'll never have to face it for real."

"That'd be nice..."

"Hey, about the Houses, have you already thought about which one you'd like to be in?"

"No, not really."

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

"Wrestling a _troll?_!"

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

"-in the end Fred and George somehow earned back all the points they lost but since then the caretaker, who they say is a really soft and nice bloke but I don't really believe them, doesn't seem to like them all that much."

A great clattering outside in the corridor interrupts whatever Harry wants to say in response to Ron's story and a smiling, dimpled woman slides back their door.

"Anything off the cart, dears?"

Ron mutters something about sandwiches but Harry sets out to get something and a disgruntled Hedwig, disturbed from her sleep, flutters away. He comes back laden with sweets of all kinds. Ron stares, saying "Hungry, aren't you?"

"Me? Never."

Even for Harry Ron's four sandwiches look remarkably sad, he goes to offer him some of his newly bought treats. Soon the sandwiches lay aside forgotten and Harry opens up his first chocolate frog card, after some prodding from Ron.

"Woo, this guy looks lovely."

"Who is it?", Ron perks up. "Is it Myron Wagtail? He sports a funny hairdo."

Harry turns his card around to read the name.

"No, it's Salazar Slytherin."

"Oh. I already have him twice."

Harry tunes Ron out to read the card:

_Salazar Slytherin was the founder of Slytherin house at Hogwarts. He was one of the first recorded Parselmouths, an accomplished Legilimens and a notorious champion of pureblood supremacy._

During his time in Diagon Alley, _Flourish and Blotts_ more precisely, Harry has caught enough snippets of information to piece together what pureblood supremacy is about. Not like it is a solely magical concept. And some descriptive book titles, also back at '_Blotts_, were nice enough to give him a rough overview about Legilimency too. But the other term...

"Do you know what a Parselmouth is?"

"What, you don't know? A Parselmouth is someone who speaks Parsel. Parsel is the language of snakes. That's very dark magic, speaking to snakes, I'm telling you."

_('Dark? The irony')_

"...Are you alright?"

"M'fine", Harry mumbles back, absentmindedly rubbing his temple.

They tear trough the other sweets next ("George reckons he had a booger-flavored one once." "So he knew what that tasted like beforehand?"), until eventually there is a knock at the compartment door.

They can't help him and the teary-eyed boy goes off to continue looking for his toad.

Ron then goes off about Scabbers, all the while Harry just looks at the rat.

"He might have died and you wouldn't know the difference-" Harry finds himself agreeing "-and I tried to turn him yellow yesterday to make him more interesting, but the spell didn't work. I'll show you, look..."

Just as he is about to cast the spell, the compartment door slides open again. It's the toadless boy accompanied by a girl that seems familiar to Harry. A second later it occurs to him where he's seen her before.

"Has anyone seen a toad? Neville's lost one."

"We've already told him we haven't seen it."

She just looks at Ron with his poised wand.

"Oh, are you doing magic? Let's see it, then."

"Er-alright."

He chants what sounds like something a nonmagical children's book would come up with. Harry, who has only lived a month with the magic community, wonders how Ron, who grew up with magic, could ever believe that is a real spell. The girl seems to share his sentiment.

"Are you sure that's a real spell? Well, it's not very good, is it? I've tried a few simple spells just for practice and it's all worked for me. Nobody in my family's magic at all, it was ever such a surprise when I got my letter, but I was ever so pleased, of course, I mean, it's the very best school of witchcraft there is, I've heard. I've learned all our course books by heart, of course, I just hope it will be enough- I'm Hermione Granger, by the way, who are you?"

She says all of this very fast. While Ron is stunned, Harry is too, though for an entirely opposite reason. She learned all the books by heart. And Harry thought he'd never meet a greater bookworm than himself. He has "only" made an effort to understand the principles about how each subject works, with part of the theoretical stuff also ingrained in his mind. Hermione, on the other hand...

It makes more sense now, for her as a person, to run people over at bookstores.

"I'm Harry Potter."

"Ron Weasley..."

Ron might as well not exist anymore, her attention is on Harry now.

"Are you really?" Hermione says. "I know all about you, of course-" At that Harry pulls a face. "I got a few extra books for background reading, and you're in _Modern Magical History_ and _The Rise and Fall of the_ _Dark Arts _and _Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century."_

"That's- Thanks for letting me know." And Harry means it, he'll look into these books if he gets the chance. Might as well catch up with what the others know. About him.

Hermione is not done yet.

"Oh, and, aren't you the one from back at that one bookstore? You carried these two feathers around with you, didn't you?"

"Right, you were the one with the massive book stack."

"Yes. Anyway, we'd better go and look for Neville's toad. You two had better change, you know, I expect we'll be there soon."

After she leaves, Ron turns to Harry.

"You know her?"

"We ran into each other. Actually, she ran into me. That aside, do you know what Rock-Paper-Scissor is?"

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

Harry is on his way back from the train's bathrooms, still unused to how his Hogwarts robes hang around his frame. His jeans and shirt are bundled under his arm. Ron beat him at a game he'd just been taught and got to be the one remaining to change in the compartment, curtains drawn shut.

After changing his clothes, he hasn't yet thought of rearranging his hair so it covers his scar. But he also hasn't yet come across someone to stare at him, so when he stops short because there are two massive boys blocking the way, it is very visible.

Harry tries to go around them but they just have to stand shoulder to shoulder and they're large enough to block the corridor that way. They're talking to each other.

"Excuse me? I need to get trough."

Whoever is speaking stops and the two turn around only to reveal that they weren't talking to each other but rather listening to the one who stands before them, a pale blond boy up to now completely obscured by their bulk.

A familiar pale blond boy. Draco Malfoy, if Harry's memory serves him right, which it always does.

Malfoy steps forward and his apparent bodyguards shuffle back. There is no mistaking that look, he too has recognized Harry, more ways than one.

"So it is true", Malfoy begins, decidedly less drawly than back at _Madam Malkin's_. "They're saying all down the train that Harry Potter is here. I just didn't expect to have already made acquaintance with you. Allow me to introduce myself properly, this time around: My name is Draco Malfoy."

So this is how Malfoy acts when he truly views someone as equal. Who is he to not indulge him?

"I'm Harry Potter. Whoever's spewing rumors isn't wrong."

Malfoy inclines his head and Harry hates the realization that he is taller by about five centimeters.

"You'll soon find out some wizarding families are much better than others, Potter. You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there."

Harry takes a moment to process what has been said and he can't say he likes the implications. But he doesn't want to burn all bridges based on pure assumptions either. Malfoy, being who he is, is no doubt experienced in the finer ways of, well, being a wizard.

"I think I might just want to sort that out for myself. Still, thank you, the offer's appreciated."

Silver eyes narrow, meeting green.

"Are you sure? With your background, you will have to learn certain things one way or another and I can be the one to make sure you come out on top."

Malfoy extends his hand for Harry to shake, and the latter puts on a toothy smile.

"With my background, I may just come in with a surprise or two."

Harry takes Malfoy's hand, his smile has grown a sharper edge.

"It still stands, I'll sort things out myself. One of them being that I can see it coming that your input will be helpful."

If there is one thing Harry has learned from a month in the wizarding world, then it is the fact that it is too vast to be learned about in one month.

Malfoy, though still slightly narrow eyed, gives a long nod and they curtly shake hands.

"Now, see, I have a compartment I really have to get back to, so..." Harry shrugs, half smiling still.

Malfoy, likely under the impression that Harry would follow him to his own compartment, responds "Is that so" in a tone that indicates nothing. He then reckons his goons to move, all the while introducing one as "Gregory Goyle" and the other as "Vincent Crabbe".

Just in time, as other compartments slide open and excited students, all not in Hogwarts robes, start coming out to go get changed themselves. The announcement saying that their arrival is imminent may have a hand in that. In the ever growing sea of people, Harry looks back and looses sight of Malfoy.

A few stop to stare or do a double take at him and he hides his scar, all the while mulling over this short but all the more interesting encounter.

Ron has changed into his slightly too short robes by the time Harry's back and trough the compartment window Harry can see it is getting dark outside. So when the train stops there isn't much to see except for the small station outside.

Harry is secretly very glad that they can leave their luggage behind, no worries. Hedwig takes flight and is gone quickly as soon as they step onto the platform.

The air around them is cool and fresh, carrying the smell of dirt and vegetation and there is a certain lively hum to it that doesn't have much to do with the chattering sea of students spilling out of the Express. There seems to be a forest nearby, a big one.

Though there could be all sorts of things around them, it wouldn't make a difference in the dark.

A booming voice makes Harry turn around.

"Firs' years! Firs' years over here! All right there, Harry?"

Ah, so Hagrid has spotted him too. Harry raises a hand in greeting.

"C'mon, follow me- any more firs' years? Mind yer step, now! Firs' years follow me!"

Though there is no opening to answer as the majority of the smaller children, all the first years, separates itself from the crowd of older students and follows Hagrid.

Chatter dies down in rising anticipation, barely held in excitement or wariness, because it is disconcerting to some to not be able to see what lies on either side of the steep, narrow path they are led down. Until they can make out a shore, glistening in the moonlight.

"Oooooh", it echoes from many stunned soon-to-be Hogwarts students, Harry being one of them.

The sight before them, the vast castle with its many turrets and towers that perches atop a high mountain, its many illuminated windows reflecting in the dark lake like the starry sky it stands out against-

Not even the magical moving pictures could do Hogwarts justice. In fact, once facing it in person, one even forgets the rather questionable meaning of its name.

"No more'n four to a boat", Hagrid calls again and Harry tears his eyes away from the castle to the little boat fleet waiting for them. He settles into one with Ron, Hermione and Neville follow.

He feels someone's gaze on him. Harry looks to the side and meets Malfoy's evaluating stare with a little wave of his own.

"Everyone in?" shouts Hagrid, who has a boat to himself. "Right then- FORWARD!"

In the end Hogwarts is more interesting to look at than Malfoy from two boats over. No one speaks, they are all enthralled by the sight, even Hermione. Until it is Hagrid again:

"Heads down!"

They leave the boats behind in an underground cave and make their way up many stairs.

From then on it seems like a fleeting second until Hagrid raises a gigantic fist and knocks three times on the castle door.

The moment it opens, Harry recoils.

If he bumps into someone or not, he can't tell, not that it matters.

This is the Cauldron, this is Gringotts, this is worse. His heartbeat picks up and he stiffens.

Distantly he registers someone patting his shoulder.

Harry forces an exhale and yes, it's Ron urging him to come along with some words that he doesn't even hear. He is urging him to go forward because the others are making their way somewhere, following someone.

Right. It is McGonagall. She is leading them trough an entrance hall. There is no reason, no reason at all-

_('No. Something. Is. Wrong.')_

Harry moves but otherwise doesn't acknowledge Ron or anyone else at all. They are in a chamber now. McGonagall says something about the Houses and housepoints but it's nothing Harry doesn't know already.

She leaves them and no one is talking much. Or paying any attention to Harry. He holds out his arm. Flicks his wrist.

The wand slides into his hand instantly.

He sheathes it. Draws it again. Silvery figures come and introduce themselves as the house ghosts and Harry pays them no heed. Something else is more important, the world is a blur around him as he is focused on-

On what actually? There is nothing around.

(Except for for the dreadful feeling deep, deep in his gut, so deep it may not actually be there)

His hand stills from where it fell into the rhythm of sheathing and unsheathing, his wand currently withdrawn but at the ready if he only makes the quicket gesture. Of course he'd get the hang of it now, when he'd need it-

Need it for what?

(Just because there is nothing _visible _around doesn't mean that everything is in order.)

That is when a strange realization hits Harry: He trusts his instincts. If they even are instincts at all, although it doesn't matter in the end. Whatever obscure part of himself it is that keeps him on edge, warning him, telling him that something is amiss- he can rely on it.

Harry can rely on himself.

Someone says his name. From his spot along the wall Harry looks up to see that a line has formed and he is the only one not standing in it. Not doing anything beyond going to line up last, it fails to occur to Harry to care about what an impression he's making, unresponsive like that.

The blank face he is wearing could not coincide less with his inner state of being; Every step they take, out of the chamber and towards doors across the entrance hall, everything in Harry revolts and he has to force himself to take step after step, breath after breath, and he can't do anything about his racing heart that sends cold waves chasing trough his body with every beat.

It is behind the doors McGonagall leads them to, the root of all of this, the very thing that is so twisted, its mere vicinity is enough to do this to him.

Harry is aware of the holster's pressure on his wrist, he can draw his wand in a quick-paced heartbeat's span. That is what keeps him going.

_(He faced the darkness, didn't shun it)_

He is last in line, last to enter a great hall. But the hall doesn't matter right now. Nor do the hundreds of other students already seated, watching the first year's procession.

Harry immediately finds what doesn't sit right with him.

At the far table, amidst the only other adults in the room, a pale young man with a turban is seated. He holds himself slumped and his movements twitch with a nervous indecisiveness.

But Harry can _feel_ his disgusting presence, it overrides everything else.

The first years are now guided to stand in line in front of the teacher's table, facing the other students, and Harry will be _damned _if he lets his guard down now, turns his back on or gets near him.

The other students watch on as the anxious newcomers get in line and when the last one of them, a scrawny black-haired boy, breaks out of formation to hurry to the other far end of the line, for no reason apparent to them, McGonagall places the stool with the Sorting Hat in front of them. It starts to sing, startling many, but except for one they all listen to it's song.

From his position at the far end of the line, the furthest possible from him, Harry swears he feels his eyes watching him. The notion alone, that this thingeven daresto acknowledge him, makes Harry angry in a way he has only ever felt back when the Dursleys still dared to lock him up.

_('Because I am_ above it')

Harry throws a look over his shoulder but the man with the turban is looking at the Hat and not him. But Harry doesn't look away, as the Hat now starts sorting and his neck begins to strain, because the feeling of being watched and being watched by this despicable somethingthat weighs heavy on his senses does not let up.

Until he hears his name being called- "Potter, Harry" -and he hurries to put on the Hat, he does not want his back facing the teacher's table too long.

He is dimly aware of the murmurs and whispers throwing his name around as the hat's rim slides over his eyes but that doesn't matter. What matters is-

_"Oh, my. You can be at ease now. An upset mind won't do my judgement's outcome any good."_

There is a small voice in his ear. It speaks over his loud thoughts and Harry finds himself faced with another thing that doesn't sit well with him.

_You read my mind_, he more states than asks, doing so mentally, _this _disconcerting thought momentarily overpowering the man with the turban.

"And I see that you have quite the sharp one. There is-"

_('Nothing for you to see_ here')

For a moment it is silent, neither speaking a word. But Harry is the one who is used to quickly moving on after a blank second and if this hat can pick up on what is in his head, he may just finally get an answer.

_What did you see? What was that?_

_"It is nothing for me to look into. I have sorted many and therefore I know when it is not my place to intrude."_

_It's me. My head. I want you to tell me._

_"If I could, I still wouldn't. It is for the better."_

The Hat doesn't say how it has never come across a mind that has this particular (otherworldly) tinge to it. There is a small part, at the very back of Harry Potter's mind, but however small it can still make itself known, if briefly.

_You sort me into a house that fits my personality but you won't tell me about myself?_

_"I stand by it."_

_'How can you sort me properly then?'_

_"You have many other qualities and as I see you are confident enough for Gryffindor. However you've also got the head for Ravenclaw. There is potential for Hufflepuff as well but you could be great in Slytherin."_

_They judge everything that has to do with the nonmagical world. And it's the House with the worst reputation._

_"It is a shame that over the years the less favourable traits have shaped the view many have of Slytherin. However, it stands, you could be great. Slytherin can bring out what is within you."_

Harry considers it and then his decision stands.

Meanwhile, the hall is bursting with the buildup of numerous hushed, excited and expectant murmurs. Usually students only start up with the discussions when the kid under the Hat is a hatstall but this is the sorting of the legendary Harry Potter.

Of course they're not quiet.

"SLYTHERIN!", the Hat shouts.

And then, for a moment, they are, as the realization sinks in. Until some of them are not.

Three quarters of the Hall continue their silence, while one of the tables erupts in cheers and shouts and gestures, beckoning their newest member to join them after he places the Hat back down and starts moving.

The collective stares of a hall full of people weigh heavier now, they carry a new, different air. However the way they don't even register with Harry is the same as before when his fellow first years shot him the occasional odd look for his withdrawn behaviour leading up to now.

Being distracted by the Hat was nice while it lasted. It hasn't made the man with the turban disappear and when Harry goes to sit with the other students at the green table, he only reacts to his housemates minimally. Without thinking anything of it he sits between Malfoy and a ghost whose bloody features he doesn't bother taking in further.

Malfoy leans over to half-whisper "I see you've gotten involved with riffraff like the Weasleys and Hagrid. You better not. They will rub off on you and that's not something you'd want."

Across and around some still look at him.

Harry just nods and continues looking in the direction of the teacher's table. The other Slytherins would maybe have lingered to stare at, no, assess Harry longer, had McGonagall not continued calling out the next ones to be sorted.

One of them being Ron, who, on his way to the Gryffindor table, casts a troubled frown Harry's way. It goes unnoticed.

After the last first year is sorted, he is not the only one paying undivided attention to the top of the Hall anymore. Dumbledore has gotten to his feet, opened his arms wide and is beaming at the students as if nothing makes him happier than to see them all there.

"Welcome," he says. "Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!

Thank you!"

There's rustling echoing across the entire Great Hall as everyone moves to fill their plates. When Harry tears his gaze from the man with the turban, he briefly looks over the abundant assortment of foods that have appeared before calling out.

"Malfoy."

Truth be told, Malfoy didn't expect Potter to speak up, to break out of whatever's gotten into him to have him behave this insociable, not after he so blatantly ignored their collective attempts at conversation in favor of staring up at the teacher's table.

"Yes, Potter?"

"That guy with the turban, what's his name?"

Ah, so he hasn't snapped out of this senseless state. His tone makes it apparent that nothing beyond whatever it is he's this keen on exists.

Malfoy doesn't remark on Potter's briskness beyond raising an eyebrow and taking maybe a little too long to make out Professor Quirrell between Professor Snape and Professor Sprout.

"That is Professor Quirrell. Is there anything he did to warrant such a tone from you?", Malfoy drawls and looks back. His breathing hitches uncomfortably when he sees Potter's expression.

There is an edge to him now, one that Malfoy can't put a finger on and that doesn't sit quite right with him.

Potter doesn't answer. Malfoy huffs and turns around to strike up an acquaintancing conversation with Theodore Nott on his other side then.

On Harry's other side sits the ghost he will come to know as the Bloody Baron and no one wants to get too close to him, so for the remainder of the banquet Harry is left in peace.

He doesn't eat much, too great is his uneasiness around this thingthat now has a name: Quirrell.

Eventually, the hall falls silent. Everyone is done eating and Dumbledore has a few last announcements to make:

"Ahem- just a few more words now that we are all fed and watered. I have a few start-of-term notices to give you.

„First years should note that the forest on the grounds is forbidden to all pupils. And a few of our older students would do well to remember that as well."

Dumbledore's twinkling eyes flash in the direction of the Weasley twins.

"I have also been asked by Mr. Filch, the caretaker, to remind you all that no magic should be used between classes in the corridors.

"Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of the term. Anyone interested in playing for their house teams should contact Madam Hooch. I also have to sadly inform you that the 'Study Of Othermagics' will be cancelled after all, due to an unforeseen problem that has arisen."

At the Slytherin table some don't particularly bother to suppress their jeers. "How heartbroken do you think the old mugglelover is" and "At this point they should just make it official that that disgrace of a class has no place here".

"And finally I must tell you that this year, the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death."

The hall is torn between laughing, laughing it off, nervously laughing and not laughing at all.

"He's kidding, right?", some say.

Dumbledore just bids everyone a chipper goodnight and with that, the students take off in four different directions. Harry is with the ones that take the way down, into the dungeons.

Once they leave the Hall behind, it is like a spell wears off. Steadily, like McGonagall's weightlifting charm back then, the further Harry distances himself from Quirrell. Now that he can somewhat relax, he grows aware of how tired and hungry he is. He hasn't eaten much.

He also grows aware of how magnificent the castle is, on the inside just like on the outside. Harry doesn't speak to anyone but this time it is because he is taking in both the layout and the appearance of the corridors they are led down by who presumably is someone important.

"Salazar", is the password that opens up a door behind a bare section of stone wall. It leads them to the Common Room.

The Slytherin Common Room is as tall as it is wide. Green is a prominent colour, present in the furniture and the light emitted by the few lamps among the wall and from the ceiling. The orange fire in the fireplace is a stark contrast. A large portrait of a serpent adorns the place above it.

In fact, now that Harry looks closer, there are serpent motifs everywhere. However their inconspicuous designs make them a perfect, ever-present detail to the room rather than obnoxious eyecatchers.

And when Harry looks up- the green light cast by the lanterns reflects off a good part of the ceiling in a way that shows it is made of glass. Behind that glass it is black. Come to think of it, behind the few windows along one of the room's walls too.

Harry already decides he likes this room, even if it is nighttime, completely dark outside, and if that little hunch he has is true and they are indeed under the lake...

"First years, with us." A boy and a girl stand before them. Prefects, they both have the badges to show for it.

"All there? Good. I am Tabitha Buckminster, the sixth year prefect."

"And my name is Lewis Greywood. The seventh year perfect. Boys and girls, split up and follow us respectively. We will show you to your rooms."

The girls, six in total, go with Buckminster and the boys, also six, follow Greywood.

He leads them to their room and on the way Harry looks around at his new classmates. There's Malfoy with Crabbe and Goyle. That's also where Harry is at his wit's end, he doesn't know the tall, solemn-looking, dark-skinned boy or the other, shorter, black-haired one. He'll have to go about learning their names.

The Slytherin Boy's Dormitory is as green as the Common room, the windows as black. Harry notes the silky curtains that can be drawn shut. Their luggage is also there, at the foot of the five canopy beds.

Harry goes to find his but stops. Of course nothing is ever that easy.

"Someone here has the same trunk I have."

The conversation between Malfoy and the black-haired boy stops and the others look at Harry too.

"So you can talk after all." It's the tall boy who has spoken.

Malfoy pipes up next. "You've been awfully quiet the whole night long. Speaking of, what was so bloody interesting about the teacher's table anyway?"

Despite himself, Harry frowns, all the while the tall boy has made his way over to examine the identical looking trunks.

"It's Quirrell. You better stay away from him", Harry answers truthfully. They will have him as a teacher too, it's only fair that he warns them.

"How so?", Malfoy asks. "He's just an inept fool. You should know that now."

True, now in retrospect, thinking back on the man without his immediate presence pressing down on Harry, he did look and move rather-

"He's not what you think he is. You don't have to take my word for it, but you would all be better off if you stayed away from him."

The black-haired boy humms thoughtfully. "Who knows? There has to be a reason Headmaster Dumbledore chose him as Defense Professor over Snape. I know what you think, Malfoy, but hear me out. You can't deny that Dumbledore is capable. But to stay away from Professor Quirrell? He's supposed to teach us to defend ourselves from danger, not be one himself."

Having said everything, Harry shrugs noncommittally. A click draws his attention to the other boy who has opened one of the trunks. He heaves the lid open and closes it after a moment, looking at Harry and indicating the other trunk.

"That one is yours."

"Thanks. And, sorry, I didn't catch your name earlier."

"Blaise Zabini."

Harry looks at the other boy, who looks behind before pointing to himself.

Harry nods. "I already know know Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle."

"Ah. I'm Theodore Nott. No need to introduce yourself in return but I have to be honest, the Potter name is not traditionally affiliated with Slytherin."

"Your lot is - was - more the common Gryffindor type", Malfoy supplies. Harry doesn't draw forth the energy to answer. Whatever's the deal with who is affiliated with what name and house, he'll try to remember bothering with it once he has the energy to spare.

He is already tucked in and half asleep, before he gets up to shut the curtains of his canopy bed. He doesn't need the others finding out about him.


	5. I - Introductions

Chapter 5: I - Introductions

* * *

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

Harry puts on the Sorting Hat and startles by a deep voice in his ear.

_"Yes, yes, what have we got here, a new mind ready for moulding! Now, where to put you?"_

_"You tell me", _Harry says_._

_"A Gryffindor you are not. A Ravenclaw not either. Also not one for Hufflepuff and you are hiding just a little too much for Slytherin. Now, where to put you?"_

Harry is silent.

_"A secret for a secret then! You will be sorted into the fifth house, the SECRET HOUSE!"_

Harry stands up, puts the hat back, and walks towards the fifth house table there is. The ones sitting there are not cheering. Instead, many eyes meet his, unmoving and unblinking. It dawns on him that they're no teens and children.

There is a young man with green eyes and light brown hair sitting next to another very tall man, his hair a little longer and a darker brown.

A short blondish man in a green hunting jacket has the perfect features for a grin but his face is empty.

A pale, black-haired man has startlingly blue eyes and wears a tan coat.

A dark skinned man is sitting next to him, he has an aura most authoritative.

The pasty looking man on his other side could pass as a lawyer with his immaculate suit and he is nearly bald, his piercing eyes standing in contrast with his round face.

Next to him sits a dark skinned man with a matching suit, though he is completely bald and does not have the other's few remaining bushes of grey hair.

The youngest among them is a redheaded girl, older than Harry by just a few years with big, greenish-brown eyes.

Harry looks back at the teacher's table, on a sudden whim to make out the fifth head teacher. He finds him.

A man with curly brown hair and a short beard meets his gaze with blue eyes. There is a presence. But it is not Quirrell's disgusting one, no, it could not be further from that-

The man smiles.

Harry wakes up.

One moment he startles because the transition from standing in a brightly lit hall to lying tangled up in a thick blanket in near darkness is jarring.

Then, waking world logic kicks back in and in those few moments Harry has before he forgets about the nonsensical dream, he is dumbfounded by what he's seen and heard.

Adults as students of the fifth house. The Hat with _that_ voice. What the-

Soon, even the vague notion that he dreamt anything at all fades away and he is left unable to go back to sleep. Honed instincts have it that he wills his trunk to make no sound when he opens it and the door to shut silently behind him, as to not wake anyone else up.

The common room is empty at this hour and he only knows the castle's layout well enough to know that it's too twisty and turny for him to find the Great Hall alone anytime soon. Great Hall, yesterday night, _him_\- come to think of it, _he_ has free reign over the castle, the chance of walking into him outside of the already dreaded class hours is too big for Harry's liking, he will keep with the rest of his housemates for now.

Housemates that aren't here to either show him to the Great Hall or keep him otherwise company, so he-

-won't go grab something to read, no, instead the charmed serpent portrait above the lit fireplace is looking straight at him.

He walks over to the fireplace and it slithers down along the black background it's painted on, they meet each other halfway.

Harry doesn't move but the snake's coils travel slowly back and forth, along the left then the right side of the lower frame. Its head never wavers from where it's poised in the middle to inspect him, tongue flickering and slanted pupils unmoving.

It hisses.

Years ago he explained how snakes differ from other animals in that they seemed to communicate more vocally and yesterday introduced him to Parsel.

It's a shame he doesn't speak it.

_(Except he does)_

_(_"Are you one of us, I cannot tell_", she asks and his answer-)_

-Tears at the back of his throat, presses down on his windpipe and air escapes him with a hiss when he responds, though mangled as the bare human throat restricts the finer undertones of a language not spoken.

_('No, other. Although I'm been with your kind from th' beginning.')_

Flaring its hood briefly, the snake coils in on itself. The writhing lengths of shimmering scales part just enough to allow one eye to peek out.

Did he... just talk to it?

He needs to sit down.

Harry takes a few tentative steps back and flops onto one of the couches, the snake still in his line of sight.

Is it... afraid?

But afraid doesn't quite describe the flightiness of an animal on edge, one that may have recognized something bigger than itself and has yet to decide upon a course of action.

He doesn't want it to fear him.

_(Didn't intend for it to, back when he helped design it-)_

_(An uninvited memory rears its head)_

_('What are you up to this ti- Gabriel, what exactly is that?'_

_'Fancy seeing you around here, Michael! What do you say? Beautiful, isn't it?'_

_'Samael, did you encourage this?'_

_'Why the ruffled feathers?'_

_'An egg-laying mammal with poisonous spurs and a beak.'_

_'To each their own. My serpents got Parent's approval, whatever this is-'_

_Gabriel gives an indignant flare of their Grace._

_'-should get Their approval. You could try making something as well.'_

_'I'd rather not intrude upon Their Creations.'_

_'Are you sure? You want to be the only archangel left out?'_

_'Does that mean Raphael-'_

_Gabriel intercepts._

_'Why'd you think this little fellow here has electroreception as well?')_

_(But Michael was not to be swayed, apparently)_

_(Upon seeing the phoenix, Samael, Raphael and Gabriel exchanged a look and never brought it up again)_

_(Snide remarks and ambiguous jokes don't count as bringing it up)_

Lost in himself, he watches the flames crackling in the fireplace. They are just dim enough to not blind, to not disrupt his peaceful state. Remind him that he is no longer supposed to welcome the way his inherent coolness, which lingers deeper than his bones and scarcely makes itself known nowadays, repels the radiating heat. Plays with it, reaches what it can't, completes and is completed by it.

The students who exit the corridor from the fifth year's room don't have it ingrained in them to be quiet when everyone else is asleep. They converse while walking in and when they spot Harry sitting there by himself, they come to a stop and watch him.

He makes a point of looking at them briefly before turning back to the fireplace, he is not in the mood for conversation quite yet. So while a steady trickle of other early risers starts to congregate in the Common Room, Harry is left alone.

Then, along comes Zabini, the first other first year. The couch under him shifts with the added weight of someone sitting down on the other end.

"Good morning, Potter."

"Hello."

It's silent until Harry's gaze lands on the serpent portrait above the fireplace again. It's watching him still.

"Do tell, what exactly is the deal with Parselmouths?", he asks. "I heard speaking to snakes is considered dark magic but I fail to see why."

Zabini throws him a considering look.

"So you did grow up among muggles. Be careful not to let your ignorance show too much, it wouldn't do any good if the wizarding world were to learn about how little their saviour knows. Not only is Parsel extraordinary rare, He Who Must Not Be Named was the last known wizard to speak it and you'll understand why that taints the perception the public has on that particular skill?"

"Hm. Also, I suppose I - what was it? Ah, yes - I already let my ignorance show around you. So do you mind also telling the guy who grew up among muggles why everyone is so bent on who affiliates with whom and what name belongs to what house?"

Zabini looks carefully blank when he takes Harry's expression in.

"Just how have you been spending your time? I assume you got introduced to magic when your letter came, which must have been well before the start of the term. So how come you are this uninformed?"

Beneath his chipper mask, Harry answers just as blankly.

"I was learning more about magic itself than politics. They don't interest me, in the end it's all an assembly of petty squabbles for vain power. There's no unity to it, no real weight."

"What an outlook to have in your position. In terms of power you are as good as a pureblood, thus you can't afford such an attitude. You are a Slytherin and you will come to learn our values in the next years, you can't just up and dismiss everything you stand for now-"

"What I stand for?" The wording rings deep and Harry restrains his swiftly risen anger behind flashing eyes. "What I stand for, Zabini, is what I alone decide. Nobody gets to tell me that. If I find your values appealing, though you will have to excuse me if I do not take interest in powerplays that are beneath me, then I will support them because I decided to do so myself."

"Who are you to say that the workings of our world are beneath you?"

"Someone who-"

(_Never had to fight to rise to power_)

"...Someone who grew past the age of arguing with other children about who is better based on what their families do." Not that Harry ever partook in such arguments himself, though the point still stands.

"Our ways of governing have served us perfectly well for centuries. The families with the purest heritage are also those best fit to lead because they aren't tainted with muggle blood, they know what's best for the wizarding world. Don't speak so laxly of something you've only just begun to learn about."

Harry huffs and leans back in the couch.

"You're right. Who am I to say that it's beneath me to contribute to a system that stands in its own way, whose members prefer to tear each other down over something as unimportant as blood instead of working together to further a society that is still stuck in the 17th century? With or without magic, people are people. But one side flew to the moon while the other has wax dripping down from the candle that hovers above the table in the pub that is the entrance to one of its most vital hotspots and it makes you wonder what went wrong."

If they'd get their heads out of their rears and started acknowledging advancements in nonmagical sciences and technology - the untapped potential hurts.

Zabini has gone silent and it seems he forgot to close his mouth completely. Then he is himself again and a frown draws his lips into a thin line.

"The moon - You can't possibly be serious, Potter. If you feel the need to lie in order to have arguments for your side, this conversation is over. At least try to make your lies seem believable in the future."

With that, he stands up and just before he is out of earshot, Harry calls after him:

"I never lie, Zabini."

There are more people in the room now, some are staring at him with various degrees of subtlety but what else is new. Harry can't yet make out anyone else from first year in the ever-growing mass of black robed students.

"Don't we have to go to breakfast?", Harry asks someone who looks to be about a fourth year. "Or do we wait for something?"

"That _something_ is Professor Snape and he - he is to make his yearly introductory announcement for we of House Slytherin are a unit and he does good reminding us all of that. Then we'll go to breakfast, yes."

Funny how her tone changed in the span of one glance at who she's talking to. Harry thanks her so very sweetly and goes back to sitting on the couch before it'll be undoubtedly taken.

It's him who stands up again after picking up on the change of tone in the ambient noise. The students gradually cease talking and are in the process of forming a half-circle around a figure, Harry can't distinguish anything else because he's too short.

Begrudgingly he paves his way trough the others, makes the conscious decision to not think about how he has yet to see someone smaller than him and comes to a halt at the front.

One look from the oily-haired man's black eyes if enough to shut the remaining few mutters in the far back up.

"I shall not waste my breath on introductory words or by repeating to you the very qualities that got you sorted into this house-"

His eyes find Harry. When he locks his gaze onto him, his face is devoid of emotions but the sneer is all the more evident in his voice.

"-but I might just as well make an exception for our new resident _celebrity_. Who only recently learned that Slytherin stands for the cunning and resourceful, represents the ambitioned and the determined and is where those fit to lead find true friends."

His eyes and those of Slytherin. On Harry, the lot of them.

Harry, who thought he could bear negative attention but Professor Snape's scathing words crack his defense and allow the stares to intrude and infect his confidence.

His gaze latches onto Snape's and he forces himself to not let go, the tension in his shoulders, which he forces not to draw up or sag, is grounding him.

"We all know of Mr. Potter and his great achievements, do we not? Aren't we most honored to be the house to welcome him in its lines? Utterly laughable delusions. Because make no mistake, by no means did Slytherin gain a brilliant student but a halfwitted muggle. We all just as well know of his upbringing. However, famousas he is, he will with no doubt draw all eyes to him and in turn to House Slytherin, which is most unfortunate, seeing as the weight of his inadequacy will fall onto us tenfold."

His head is held high but that only serves to remind him of how they still tower over him. That Snape doesn't quite look him in the eyes but at a point above only serves to make him feel smaller.

Harry makes the mistake of glancing around and once he lost Snape's cold glare, he can't muster the will to look up and past the others to find it again. The stone floor before him looks to be just as cold anyway.

"This year more than ever, I expect to see no misconduct that will tarnish Slytherin's reputation further than the presence of Mr. Potter here is already destined to. You will study hard like those fit to play in the Quidditch team will train hard for us not to loose our standing, seeing as despite the weight dragging us down, Slytherin still is more than capable of defending both cups and I won't accept anything less."

(_Will he let himself be dragged down by_ this?)

When he straightens back up, Harry's eyes are _green_. They reflect the ambient light so well, they might just glow themselves. With a smile and a slight sideways tilt of his head, he looks Snape in the eye while he decides that he _doesn't like him_.

Snape's baleful glare narrows. It's silent until he scoffs out a "Dismissed" before whirling around and exiting the common room, robes billowing.

Conversations pick up again, as does a genreal movement to head out. Out the corner of his eye, Harry makes out Zambini's tall dark shape next to a pale one that can only be Malfoy and some of the girls in their year, so while the Slytherins get going, Harry stays hangs back around his fellow first years. He thinks.

Because he is too busy staring to pay who he's next to any mind, just navigating Hogwarts' hallways is a full-on experience in and on itself.

The portraits are moving. Not that that's new but there are so many of them and seeing a medieval lady walk over into a giraffe's frame is certainly something. The tapestry moves as well. The armours don't.

A slab of brick wall catches Harry's eye because he could've sworn it was door-shaped the second prior.

When he looks up at the ceiling, the dusty chandelier's light casts a shadow of something that's not there.

A cat is yowling bloody murder as it runs past them, chased by a translucent pearly dog whose floating bones are visible, leaving a cold chill in its wake.

A chill of the same sort, if only stronger, passes by his back. Harry whirls around and it's the bloody ghost who hovers above him, if he's looking at or past him is not to be determined clearly with the ghost's thousand-yard-stare that seems to be as much a part of him as the bloodstains. Deranged shrieking grows louder as something dubbed "Peeves!" and "the bloody poltergeist!" is drawing closer.

"That deranged menace Dumbledore's too soft to banish" turns out to be a short man with a bell-covered hat and a bucket in hand, though his wicked expression morphs into one of horror upon getting too close to Harry and he books it trough a wall, which leaves the tangible bucket behind. It cascades down and spills its sickly green and sickly slimy contents.

Clearly the bloody ghost, who now leisurely passes the same wall Peeves fled trough, is the reason for the latter's distress.

When they get to the - of course moving - staircases, every student is bent on skipping past three steps in particular, no matter how ridiculously it may make their robes flutter and it obviously hurts some egos. Harry gets his answer when Goyle doesn't and it results in him hanging on to dear life as there is suddenly nothing under him. By the combined efforts of Crabbe and some more older students, they get him out.

And then there's the Great Hall. Harry only now gets around to properly taking it in. Sadly, he can't keep on standing and gawking like a buffoon in the middle of the way.

Even prying his gaze away from the charmed ceiling to see where he's sitting down at the Slytherin table feels like an affront. Though at the smell of breakfast, a bout of aching pain in his gut reminds him of how badly he needs to catch up on eating, but before he can make sense of the overwhelming array of foods and decide, he's interrupted.

"Feeling more sociable today, Potter?" That's Malfoy cutting in. "Not too late to mend that awful first impression."

Not this again. Harry's gaze locks on an apple on a plate about a meter out of his arm's reach and while he answers Malfoy, he wonders if, after this passed month, he still is up to the task of summoning it manually.

"My first impression was bad but Quirrell's" - the name alone is almost enough to vanish his ravenous appetite but Harry concentrates on the apple and banishes the man from his mind "- was worse. I honestly don't get how nobody else sees him for what he is."

The apple flies into his opened hand. It's suspiciously quiet where Malfoy is sitting and when Harry turns around, the other is looking at the apple in his hand with forcefully restrained awe.

"Did you just summon that apple wandlessly?"

Harry wonders anew, this time if he can still draw his wand without making a fool of himself. He raises the apple-less hand, flicks his wrist and there, it slides into his grip before he retracts it just as smoothly. That's what pleases him, not Malfoy's now dumbfounded expression. That rather confuses him.

"What, can't you do anything without a wand?"

"Are you - you are. You are serious. How can you not know that wandless magic is..." He trails off and for all Harry has known Malfoy for a short while, it's jarring to see him speechless.

"That wandless magic is what?", Harry inquires.

"That, unless we're in in Africa here, wandless magic is nigh impossible to do, especially for an untrained, muggle-raised halfblood."

Pure spite is what fuels Harry to hover the apple and spin it a good ten centimeters over his opened hand without it taking the few moments to let his magic work, all the while he's not breaking his flat stare at Malfoy.

"Ah yes, I heard the lions are lovely around here." He indicates the red-gold Gryffindor table while the apple falls back into his palm. "I hope I won't be disappointed, now that'd make me sad."

Someone nearby snorts and that someone is Nott, seated across them. Under their questioning looks, he reigns his smile back in and raises an eyebrow at the both of them.

"Something the matter?", he asks them, before addressing Malfoy. "I thought you planned on introducing Potter to real wizarding culture. Go on, don't get distracted."

Malfoy narrows his eyes minutely at Nott before he dismisses him by turning his attention back on Harry. The latter is already talking around a mouthful of apple and it's only the situation's surrealism that keeps Malfoy from remarking on that.

"Intr'duce me t' culture, huh?", Harry asks, then swallows. "Then explain to me why wands, better yet, the lack thereof is this big a deal. I get that they're there to be an easy outlet for magic and allow for more precision but is it really that weird to do small tasks without bothering to draw a wand?"

Says he whose wand is at his fingertips at all times but then again, laziness doesn't have to follow reasonable rules.

"A true wizard doesn't lower himself to do 'small tasks' that are below his and his magic's dignity, because a true wizard is one affluent enough to have house elves at the ready to do just that for him. You know what a house elf is, correct?"

"Yeah. But I get the feeling that's not all there is to it."

Harry spins around, catching quite a few pairs of eyes before they can be averted timely, and asks "Anyone else care to elaborate?"

It's the blonde first year girl sitting next to Nott who does, not even bothering to pretend she didn't listen in on their conversation.

"Daphne Greengrass. Wandless magic is difficult, it is hard to control, should it even manifest at one's will, so only masterful wizards have a tight enough grasp on their magic to even attempt using it wandlessly. Of course in some regions, like parts of Africa and America, they don't use wands from the beginning but frankly, there is a reason the absolute majority of wizards uses one and you'll excuse if it is surprising that of all people, you with your muggle upbringing seem to have this level of control."

It's Harry's turn to be dumbfounded.

"How can you not know how to handle your own magic? It's literally a part of you."

"Better yet, how _can_ you?" Greengrass counters after a blank moment on her part as well. "I don't think I've made it quite clear enough just how difficult it is. You can't tell us that you just up and did it and it came to you without complications, that's impossible."

"Granted, it took a little, but it worked", Harry shrugs and leans back slightly. "Now that you say it, I think I may have passed out for a day straight after first doing it, even if all I did was make light, open and close a lock and repair a torn paper. Not even well, I might add. Then again, I was three? Four?"

"Why in Merlin's name did you need push yourself to do all that wandlessly when you were four at most?", Malfoy asks.

Harry's face falls. Just for a moment, he has his relaxed expression immediately pasted back on, but that one moment is enough to cast a light not good-looking, should that statement not have done so already.

"Anyway, I kept on trying new stuff out, even found a nice"- safebut he already said too much- "place to practice. Thing is, I thought my little games were primitive compared to what actual wizards and witches can do."

That's not the case if the looks of his housemates are anything to go by.

"Primitive, what even-" Malfoy sets on and then goes over into muttering to himself in frustrated disbelief.

"What exactly does 'trying new stuff out' mean with you?", Zabini asks from next to Malfoy.

"Sparks, hovering some items, changing colour and shape of some and the size of others and... yeah, all-round manipulating like that, that's about it."

Because even at these rather minor achievements the others are starting to look increasingly incredulous, he isn't all that keen on adding 'going invisible for like a second'. They wouldn't believe him.

(One day, Harry _will_ plomp Zabini down in front of a computer and _show_ him.)

But there's also a certain undertone to their awe and it's Nott who gives it a voice:

"You do realise how close you were to either death or completely loosing your magic, don't you?"

He-

_"Excuse __me?"_

-doesn't.

"Pushing your magic like that from such a young age on - and doesn't that sound like a whole other rabbit hole -" Harry does _not_ waver, he maintains steady eye contact, "- you did say you passed out. That'd be overexertion and you could've not woken up again, but it could also have seriously stunted your magic's development. Nonetheless, not only did you manage to do wandless magic at that age, you somehow also balanced that fine line between honing it and not exploiting it to the point of no return."

Conserving his magic, letting it grow along with him and not stunting it by overuse certainly hadn't even made the list of his priorities. Because Harry knew it to be his to absolutely rely on and that didn't include going easy on it.

_(Excruciatingly weak as it is compared to what he should be capable of, it didn't disappoint)_

_(How picky can he still afford to be at this point?)_

_(He should never even have been in the situation to have that question cross his mind at all, curse them all for it-)_

"I don't know what Professor Snape's issue with you is, Potter," Nott says, bringing him back to the discussion at hand. "But he may have miscalculated for once."

Harry is smiling, of course he is, but why is it suddenly so hard to fight that smile down when he has worn it long enough to show acknowledgement?

"Tha-"

On that one syllable, Harry chokes. Gone is the smile, his leaning slightly back and his idle fiddling with the bitten apple. It also doesn't look like he will get to eat anything more, gone is his appetite as well.

Because that sensat- because _Quirrell_ is back.

"Wha-oi, watch it with that bloody thing!"

Malfoy and his startled exclamation upon abruptly finding himself on the other end of Potter's wand is maybe a bit over the top. Or it isn't.

He will be damned if he ever admits it, and be it to himself, but Malfoy inwardly rejoices in relief when he catches on that Potter isn't directing that glare atbut pasthim, that his wand is aimed at something behindhim. His wand that is a piece of barely refined wood, a brutishly long thing that, in one instance of morning light flaring along its length, looked more imposing than even Father's finely carved and decorated one.

"What's going on, Potter?", Greengrass asks.

Malfoy pretends he was also looking at Potter questioningly all along.

"_He's_ coming. How do you _not_ notice a thing?"

"What don't we notice?"

"Who are you talking about?"

But Nott's and Zabini's questions are ignored.

Malfoy sits with the Great Hall's entrance behind him. Potter's unnerving focus wanders from his general direction to and past the masses that enter and make their ways to their tables, now Slytherin's isn't the only fully occupied one anymore. Still, even with the thick of the students out of the way it takes Malfoy a moment to make out the jittery jester who is supposed to teach them to defend themselves against dangers, and be these dangers but traditional practices inherent to the true wizarding heritage.

His learned disdain for the Dark Arts' fall from grace aside, Malfoy sees Potter's ridiculous behavior start up anew and has to act. Professor Snape was right in that the student body's attention would be drawn to him.

"By Merlin, Potter, _snap out of it_. You don't see us watching Quirrell like a frenzied thestral smelling blood."

"Judging by how yesterday went, you won't get him to react anytime soon", Zabini drawls lazily.

"It's Quirrell he's so... focused on, no?", Greengrass asks, looking back and forth between Potter and the object of his ire. They can all agree to that.

"Didn't you notice how he seemed to know that Quirrell was approaching before he even entered the Hall?", Nott asks. "Better yet, he spotted him in the midst of a crowd right away."

Greengrass takes the words right out of Malfoy's mouth.

"You don't believe there's a sense to this madness, do you?"

Nott blinks slowly.

"I'm just stating the obvious. For example, compare Potter right now to how he was when Professor Snape finished his speech."

Against their will, they have to admit that Potter's open animosity towards Quirrell gains a new weight after he openly smiled in Professor Snape's face.

It's quiet until Greengrass takes Malfoy's words again.

"I get the feeling nothing about him makes any sense whatsoever."

"Believe me, Greengrass", huffs Zabini, "You're definitely not alone in thinking that, not after my other encounter with him."

A moment of circling around one another follows. For Zabini to keep Greengrass and the others waiting to the point of asking without giving in to the urge to share and for Greengrass to outwait Zabini. Because one rarely gets to experience being a dumb, impulsive child when growing up in string-pulling, sophisticated families.

"I've had a chance to take a peek at Potter's point of view", Zabini elaborates just when Greengrass was about to take that breath and ask. "Or rather, the messy construction zone there."

He recounts the essentials of their conversation.

"If that isn't going to be a challenge", Greengrass states with a pull to the corners of her mouth.

Malfoy _tsks_. "Who does he think he is. He well and truly has no idea what he's talking about. I-" At that, he squints as if what he says next almost hets stuck in his throat. "I'm willing to give him the benefit of the doubt, with his background and all. But there better be a good reason he was sorted with us in the first place."

"Now, now, we don't want to antagonise the future Merlin our house won any further than Professor Snape already did, do we? That'd be unlucky", Nott interrupts. "The Potter heir, future inhabitant of the Potter's Wizengamot seat and an influential public figure. Who has yet to learn the fullest magic has to offer."

And when he says fullest, he doesn't mean the fullest of just light.

"Of which I can assure you I am working on", Malfoy states curtly. He doesn't need the others interfering.

"Draco", Greengrass replies. "_The_ Harry Potter. Openly convinced and using his fame to bring the banned practices back. This is not the time for just the Malfoy name to swoop in and secure the quest and its prizes, this concerns and benefits all of us."

And when she says 'us', she doesn't mean the fullest of the wizarding world.

"What I do hope you all have so cunningly accounted for is the tripping jinx he could throw into your plans out of nowhere", Zabini says. Which, true.

"But first things first", Nott counters. "We'd need to stake out his position in the first place before we can so much as predict something like that."

They all still when, suddenly, the statue in their midst that so blissfully ignored them and their conversation stands up and is about to move away.

"Where do you think you're headed?", Malfoys calls out. "We still haven't gotten our schedules yet."

Potter was headed somewhere where Quirrell isn't, as is made apparent by how he visibly makes an effort to sit back down. But they all can bear to be in the same Hall as their professor and later on in the same much smaller classroom, he'll have to as well.

The delivering owls come and go, the Hall starts to clear out, two of the other houses already having gotten their schedules, and some of the Professors leave as well to prepare. One of them standing out by how his absence makes Potter visibly relax.

So he's serious about whatever farce he's playing here. Malfoy says as much.

But Harry's too busy lamenting the disappearance of food and plates from the table, still, he at least has his apple to finish.

And finish the apple he does, it's certainly more productive than bothering to react to Snape's venomous look when he doesn't hand but nearly slams the schedule in front of him.

His spirits somewhat lifted again, he immediately brings them back down by asking "Hold up, what does Quirrell even teach?" and promptly dreading the next day and Thursday, when he'll have Defense class.

On the other hand, Harry can't but look forward to to just about every other subject because _there's so many of them_ and _they'll all be magical-_

This first day they will start with Transfigurations, Charms and Herbs, in that order. He feels like skipping to the classroom. But he doesn't. Only feels like it. In his chest, something big itches to be made air and he can't wait to start class.

Still on his happy high, he isn't deterred by his classmates' variations of "What are you _doing_-" when he goes straight for the cluster of Gryffindors that'll have class with them and singles out one of the boys.

"Hey there, Ron!"

"It's Weasley to you, Potter."

That one bit-out sentence is enough, the cold blanket to smother the good mood he had going on there.

"What?"

Ron is now openly glaring.

Then again, Harry can work well with cold.

"Is there a reason you act like the train ride never happened?"

"Yes there is, look at what colour your crest is! Did you really think I'd fall for- I'd fall for your slimy Slytherin schemes?"

"What schemes? I greeted you since, and I think you need a reminder, we've already broken the ice yesterday."

"And it was a mistake." Over his shoulder, Ron shoots a quick glance two of the three other Gryffindor boys. "A damn bloody mistake."

"Yes, I see a mistake too", Harry wills his tone to betray nothing, "Though not the one you're thinking of."

To that, Ron has no answer. Just like Harry has no desire to keep standing in between the green and red fronts, he turns heel and keeps his head high and his gaze too. Pretends that he doesn't meet the other's looks that reek faintly of unspoken I told you sobecause his keeping his gaze high means he just about meets them at eye level.

"See?", Malfoy starts up. "There are people plain undeserving of your attention and if you payed heed to my advice, it would have saved you the trouble in the first place. At least you know better by now."

"Hm. Maybe I do."

"Add to that that all other houses seem to have that innate aversion to us", Nott supplies from the sidelines, "And you've got yourself the reason to stay with us. For the better, I might add, I doubt you'll find a certain open-mindedness for the finer arts of magic elsewhere."

"Open-mindedness?", Harry asks with a smirk he can't quite hold in. "Elaborate on that."

Nott cranes his neck to look around Harry and Malfoy, saying "Another time. Here's not the place and Professor McGonagall is coming anyway."

Indeed, chatter on both sides dies down when the stern witch in question unlocks the classroom door and they all trickle in to find their seats. Harry is already sitting when it dawns that this time around he'll likely have a bench neighbour so he looks around and waits to see what'll happen.

He'd have thought Malfoy to go with either Crabbe or Goyle but the two walking mountains squeeze to sit together instead. They're both so large, how can they both be as large as Dudley, it looks like there are two fourth years sitting there surrounded by firsties and that, like the two of them, takes up so much room in Harry's thinking, he didn't notice Malfoy taking place on the seat next to him.

Harry blinks in confusion.

I means nothing. Him and Malfoy, they don't have the same backstory as Harry and his past classmates, atop of that the other is making himself to be his guide of sorts and Harry is a fool to think he chose to be his seat neighbour out of the goodness of his heart.

He has his materials out and ready and doesn't even have to wait for something to happen because McGonagall is already upfront and, under the general rustling of books and parchments being taken out, brandishing her wand and making entire blocks of texts and explanatory illustrations appear and disappear one after the other on the chalkboard.

Malfoy is also no longer busy unpacking, instead he asks "What kind of quill is that?"

"Why are you so interested in my _qui_-"

"Is there a problem?"

"No, Professor", is both their kneejerk answer to McGonagall's question posed over her shoulder. She musters them. The rustling slowly dies down as more and more people have their items at the ready.

"Then I expect you to stay focused", McGonagall remarks before flicking her wand again, which replaces the last wall of text with a simple headline:

_The Essentials Of Transfiguration_

She turns around and that single strict motion is enough to keep anyone of them from so much as thinking of doing something other than pay attention.

During her following long and demanding lecture, even those who are just robotically copying the board and have stopped understanding don't quite dare to slack off either. Malfoy has no time to throw more than four disdainful glances at Harry's not-quill. Harry too is busy enough to ignore the scratching of quills. Nails on chalkboard have nothing on that infernal sound.

Then comes the demonstration. Desk to pig and back.

Harry is ecstatic.

Then comes their task, to make a match a needle and he is a little less ecstatic because, honestly, he expected a little more. A sentiment shared my many others but Harry is the only one to retain it, like he is the only one to manage the task.

Malfoy, not all that successful on his own part, keeps glancing increasingly often at Harry's now-needle then back at his own matchstick.

"Do you need help?", Harry asks before he can think, although he himself doesn't know why or even how he should and could help in the first place.

"I'm trying to get the hang of it on my own, that's what this is all about in the first place", Malfoy short of snaps back between gritted teeth. Then, after a beat- "But thank you, I suppose."

When Harry juggles his object of practice between being a needle and a matchstick, the spell's incantation growing faster and quieter the more often he says it, it's not out of spite like at breakfast, but boredom. He waits for McGonagall to finish correcting Neville from-the-train Longbottom's pronunciation so he can maybe get something else to do while practicing how good he is at transfiguring the thing without looking. Though something else gets ahead of that.

"How are you doing that?"

The high voice isn't saying the incantation or talking to someone close by, it's directed loudly across the classroom. From the red to the green side. Harry looks around, there is Granger and she's looking straight at him with her brows furrowed.

Harry glances down briefly at the matchstick that's been a needle and then not anymore some many times by now. Granger has followed his line of sight.

"Ha-Potter, how are you doing that?"

Does he have something better to do than indulge her? He finds his gaze flitting to McGonagall who is inspecting his work from afar before she looks him in the eye and gives an appreciating nod while simultaneously giving permission. No, he doesn't have anything better to do, at least for now.

Because he doesn't feel like answering back across the classroom, even if they're all so courteous and have fallen silent, he grabs his matchstick and invites himself onto the free seat next to her while not allowing himself to think about how the one next to him wasn't empty anymore.

"Like this", Harry says, wand raised and the incantation on his lips. Before him, there lays a needle.

Granger takes it and inspects it. Her frown deepens when she doesn't find a single flaw in the shiny metal, even the eye is there. She puts it down gingerly, takes her wand and points it at her own matchstick, imitating Harry perfectly, down to the wand movement. Her matchstick remains unchanged.

"That's exactly what I did, but it didn't work. So. How exactly are you doing that?", she asks anew.

Harry looks between their wands.

"It just comes to me."

Her frown turns sour and she huffs.

"Well to me it doesn't. I follow every step thoroughly, just like you did, but nothing will work. Perhaps I ought to try harder-"

One second to the next he isn't in the classroom anymore but in the dark. He knows making light is possible but he tries hard and often and it won't come. Maybe if he tries harder-

He's back and the grip around his wand, strong enough to make it tremble, anchors him in the present. But the flashback also served to make him realize something.

Harry grins at Granger and her sour disposition.

"I know what your problem is."

Faced with a potential solution, Granger can't hold the frown for long, it'd distract her from listening attentively. Or maybe it's listening to a possible solution for a problem that makes her forget to keep it up.

"This is magic, not mathematics", Harry explains. "Things won't come together by themselves because you follow the rules, there's a little something you yourself need to add into the equation."

"And that is?"

"Magic."

She blinks at him, then blinks some more.

"Just what do you think I was doing until now?"

Harry isn't deterred.

"Just what do you think happens when someone who isn't a witch takes a wand, points and moves it while speaking foreign words? The same thing. It's the magic that's missing."

Going by her expression, she is not quite catching on. Going by the befuddled looks everyone in their vicinity sports, they aren't either. Thus Harry elaborates.

"Granger, let me guess. When your magic first showed, it's likely that you did something way more elaborate than turning a matchstick into a needle, am I right?"

"Yes, I returned a battered old book to looking- What does that have to do with this?"

"The magic. It's there, you have it. But that's just it, you don't know how to actively call upon it, that's what this exercise is all about. That everyone here is strong enough to transform a tiny piece of wood is out of the question, it's about the technique. Incantation and wand movements, they are just means to an end, they guide your magic to do what the spells are supposed to, but it's you who has to get the hang of, well, bringing your magic into the equation."

Granger is silent, as are the others. Finally, she mutters "That isn't what's written in the books."

"Do the books tell you how to walk as well? This is something instinctive, no one else can teach you that."

She doesn't acknowledge him further but Harry knows that's because she is concentrating on what he said, bent on doing this trick he told her of. He knows that, how does he know that-

"That was a very apt explanation, Mr. Potter, fifteen points to Gryff- to Slytherin. You can return to your own seat-" She addresses the rest of the class. "-while everyone else resumes work. For your own sakes, do work on your inconspicuousness."

But there is no real bite behind her reprimand. Just how, Harry observes on his way back, the talk that picks up again is less talkand more incantation. Attempts at incantation.

"Somehow I find myself doubting you grew up without any prior knowledge about magical workings at all", is how Malfoy greets him. A snide compliment but a compliment nonetheless.

"None I didn't teach myself", Harry answers. "It's not like I just know things..."

Harry never lies. Still, he trails off, unsure. Knowing things, if that isn't a subject that has no logical reason to be as touchy for him-

No. He is here now and he will stay in the here and now.

Harry looks away from Malfoy and to his side of the desk. The needle is there. He could ask McGonagall to give him another task or he could do something else instead...

Malfoy doesn't like that it had to be the mudblood. Doesn't like that she was the one to coax that rather... exotic explanation out of him, never before has he thought of magic as something instinctual, like it is but an animalistic trait rather than the power only their kin is high enough to tap into.

He observes his fellow Slytherins. There is definitely a different tinge to their concentration than before, when he stealthily assured himself that he was not the only one not succeeding. And by the looks of it, they seem to be onto something.

That something being following Potter's lead. Primitive, really- then again, his eyes did not deceive him at breakfast.

But if magic is to be treated as something one does instinctually, that doesn't negate that wizards, at their very being, are above all other. That they control something muggles can't begin to comprehend as easily as they breathe.

He quite likes that idea, Malfoy admits to himself with a tiny smile.

Which is when something explodes next to him.

The force throws him sideways, off the seat and to the ground. There's ringing and it's both in his ears and around him, a metallic sort of sound echoes and finds its end engulfed by the loud ruckus of a classroom scrambling to look around to see what happened.

By the time Malfoy has wobbled back to his feet, McGonagall is already there and by Potter's side. Malfoy doesn't see much of him but he hears the other repeatedly assure his well-being.

Potter's side of the desk, on the other hand, is less desk and more charred black skeleton.

"-g's broken, I'm alive, I'm fine."

Almost. Because there is the itty bitty tiny problem that Harry can't tell for sure who he's talking to, though it should be McGonagall. Her voice is one of the ones nearby, coming from the wall of black-robed figures with specks of green and red if he squints. Atop their robes are the pale ovals all faces have been reduced to for him, one of the darker ones is perhaps Zabini's and that's about as far as his observations go.

He'd need his glasses to see more and he voices as much.

Harry hears the uncomfortable shift in their tones when they realize that, hears McGonagall command them back to their seats and doesn't see how Nott steps forward to take his glasses from Granger, who picked them up and was in the process of bringing them to him.

"Here", Harry hears Nott say and the familiar frail form of his glasses falls into his palm.

Harry puts them back on and sees the world again, though trough fingerprints. Whatever, he'll get wipe them or get used to the stains in no time. What does leave a bad taste in his mouth that won't go away as easily, however, is how vulnerable he was in that one moment in front of them all.

Blinking past the fingerprints, there is McGonagall and, oh bloody hell, that's the desk he was sat at. How does he not have so much as a scratch?

"Mr. Potter, what were you doing before all of this happened?", McGonagall asks as if she talks to someone who snatched another kid's lunch, not sent a desk flying.

They are among the only ones standing, like the next lesson will be brought to the rest of the students by the both of them. Not that Harry minds, he has questions himself.

"Nothing concrete, actually, I hadn't yet decided if I wanted to shape or colour the needle after I finished enlarging."

"Those spells are not yet in your curriculum, where did you even get their movements and incantations?"

"Spells? I wasn't doing spells."

"What do you mean by that?"

The Slytherins sat next to him at breakfast have an inkling that is confirmed when Potter answers.

"I was doing... let's call it wandless magic with a wand? Because I did use my wand and but I didn't use spells when I tried to do my thing. I can assure you that an explosion was not what I had in mind for that needle."

McGonagall has a sneaking suspicion.

"You told me of your wandless abilities before. Did you, just now, attempt to cast that way again but with your wand this time around?"

"Yeah."

That sneaking suspicion of hers is not so sneaking anymore.

"And when you attempted to manipulate the needle, you had an approximate end result formulated in your mind, which you wished to achieve by continuously and magically changing the object. Am I right to assume that?"

"Yes."

"And when you cast wandless magic before, it takes you a while of concentration to have something happen."

"...Yes."

And there she has it.

"Which is where the problem lies; What you do when you don't use a wand is manifesting magic with hardship. Now if you have your wand out, it serves to remove the obstacles and you'll find yourself being able to cast a great deal easier, but that, if one casts magic but doesn't cast a spell, is a problem. The sudden influx of its power is too vast to be controlled."

She indicates the table.

"Because magic is, by its very nature, volatile and shifting and if one doesn't have a very tight grasp on it or said grasp slips, unwanted and often disastrous outcomes, like we've seen happen just now, are the consequence. Frankly, you got off lucky with just the classical explosion."

"So if what went wrong is about the control-"

"Do not so much as finish that sentence. Much arithmetic, linguistic and runic work has gone into the development of every last spell there is, their associated wand movements and incantations, as to assure that said _control_ is already granted. I will have to deduct twenty points from Slytherin for this, Mr. Potter, and, should you attempt such freestyle magic again, that number will increase exponentially. Reparo."

_(To Hell with it. His power only knows limits on a scale almost beyond celestial, not _this)

Harry stands by and watches as his desk makes itself brand new again. Malfoy was leaning against the wall next to it, he can't be blamed for not feeling like sitting down at half a desk.

Meanwhile, behind her frown, McGonagall hides a smile. She has to hand it to James Potter's son, he's the youngest to receive a warning about getting too experimental with magic too soon. The next people who she expected to have that talk with were either the Weasley twins or a few of the Ravenclaws.

When they exit the classroom, the murmurs from the Gryffindor half waft over.

"Imagine being that much of an overachiever that you get points _off_!"

"Hey now, we should be thankful. We don't want Slytherin to win the House Cup the seventh year in a row."

"But that explanation Potter gave _was_ pretty good..."

"No. He's still a Slytherin, no matter who or how _good_ he is."

Maybe the Gryffindor boy who said that feels something because he turns around and finds himself pinned down by said Slytherin's stare.

"Got a problem?", the boy bites out.

Harry just keeps on looking because the longer he looks, the more cracks in the boys bravado he can make out and it's interesting to behold. Even some other Gryffindors who side with their housemate fidget nervously.

"As much as someone would have a problem with the Gryffindor way of narrowminded thinking, yes."

But it isn't Harry who's answered, it's Nott. Who's standing next to Crabbe who, along with Goyle, are standing next to Malfoy who's standing next to him. When'd that happen?

The Gryffindors don't flank their housemate as closely and before they can close in in support, he has already rolled his eyes and retreated. With their face gone, the other Gryffindors scatter as well, to the winds and their next class which is also Slytherin-Gryffindor mixed.

"I can't tell if I'm touched", Harry starts up. "Or if that's just a regular everyday occurrence between Slytherins or Gryffindors."

"You're in for a surprise, then", Nott deadpans while Malfoy groans "Is it that hard to just say thank you?"

"Thank you. No, it really isn't."

And if that last remark came out a little less cutting than he intended, it's not like they know that.

Harry's first impression upon seeing Professor Flitwick is glee that he finally gets to be taller than someone and he immediately reprimands himself for it. His second is that, for all the white beardery, the tiny professor can still get excited much like a young child. Like when he falls over once coming across Harry's name on the list and when he applauds him for his "innate grasp on the spell, marvelous charmwork Mr. Potter!"

"Do you still not need help?", Harry asks tongue-in-cheek when he catches Malfoy staring again. Malfoy, who narrows his eyes before he shoots back "Yes, I do. You can help me by not exploding this desk either."

"That's fair."

Later, after lunch and before Herbology, it's Malfoy's turn to raise an eyebrow to hide his befuddlement and ask "Do you... need assistance?"

"Thing is, I don't know", Harry replies after waving the dark green tendrils of a plant that is all around him with its vines away from his face. Why it only cocons and surrounds him and leaves everyone else to gape dumbly on the outside (with him doing that on the inside), he has no clue.

"By Merlin, no!" Judging by how Professor Sprout sprints towards them from where she closed the greenhouse door behind the few stragglers, there seems to be a reason to worry.

"Away from him. AWAY! _Incendio_!"

But instead of fleeing the trail of flames that escapes her wand, the tendrils weave into a tall wall in front of Harry and they won't budge. Even when a hole is burned straight trough them.

He has his wand at the ready when the charred vines crumble and give way to see the slack-jawed expression on Professor Sprout as she lowers her own wand. But in tune with the shifting of the remaining vines that starts up again, she raises it, though another spell doesn't yet leave her lips.

The vines start tangling themselves up in front of Harry anew, an erratic air to them as they start getting all up in his face.

"Can you not?", he asks while giving in to the urge to tap them sternly with his wand. The plant stills and retreats quickly.

Professor Sprout's ready stance shifts into one of concern when she walks up to Harry to inspect him.

"Are you alright, boy? Where did it get you?"

"Nowhere. Why, what was that plant?"

But the last of his words seem to be lost on her as she lights up in boundless amazement.

"That's incredible! Devil's Snares are usually docile in such bright environments, I've never seen one move this actively in daylight! Not to mention that it withstood the actual heat and flames..."

She grows quieter as she starts muttering something about "abnormal behaviour" and "study later". Finally, with a cheerful clap, she snaps back to attention, as does the class. They leave with aching arms from repotting what definitely weren't daisies because daisies don't emit a faint tune when tapped on the petals.

On the way back there's that wall again that this morning seemed to be a door too when they passed it and then they're in the Slytherin Common Room. Which-

"-is underwater, isn't it?"

"You're starting to catch up on things", because apparently none of them can give a simple 'yes' or 'no'.

What they do provide, however, is good ambient noise. Sitting at a table, the day's work strewn out in front of him, Harry finds that he can concentrate on doing homework easier than ever. The voices talking all around him don't distract him. The opposite is the case, they bridge a silent gap in his consciousness he wished he'd left behind along with the darkness of his cupboard.

It's soothing. It's painful. It's interrupted by a sound somewhere in between an inhale, a slurp and a hiss.

There's a cat chewing on his shoelaces. It lashes out to leave four red stripes on his hand when he wants to shoo it away. Eight when he tries again and his lace comes out slobbery on top of that. Hellcreature finally in hand, Harry looks around for who may be its caretaker. Caretaker because the cats back at Mrs. Figgs' made it clear that they all also did as they pleased, though to less bloody obnoxious extents.

He spots the by now familiar faces of the other boys and the slightly less familiar ones of the girls in first year where they occupy a section of the seats by the fireplace for themselves. They're talking.

Naturally, he needs to bring himself into this obviously very important conversation as smoothly as possible:

"Guys? Do you know whose stupid cat this is?"

The girl with the heavy jaw jumps up.

"That's my Rochester. Why are you talking about my Rochester that way? Also, stop holding him like that."

Which Harry does. Still at his arm's height but that's... not a great altitude and this is a cat anyway.

"Don't mind Milicent", says the girl next to her lightly. "She is the only one her cat doesn't bother and as such, she never believes us when we _tell her otherwise._" The sentence is finished with a snide glance sideways.

"Maybe," Milicent retorts, "Rochester would leave you be if you didn't step on his tail all the time."

"How does his tail even get in my way when I'm minding my own business all the time?"

Harry, who watched this exchange like a tennis match, is having his attention diverted by a call from Nott, who indicates Malfoy, who indicates a comfortably free spot between him and Zabini.

He sits down and, like a switch is flipped, the conversation strays from pets to remaining introductions and in turn family matters. There's Milicent Bulstrode, Lily Moon, Pansy Parkinson, Tracey Davis and Sophie Roper.

Needless to say they're all pureblooded future holders of their families' respective Wizengamont seats. He feels like he will have quite an interesting time here.

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

* * *

**Edit: corrected Blaise Zabini's name because somehow I always read and thus wrote his name as 'Zambini' and I'm sorry for that one**

**Ok so this wasn't intended to be so short and cover so little, but the originally intended thing is growing to be ridiculously long so I cut it into two parts here and will post the rest... somewhen. Next chap's gonna advance this thing a great deal more and I can't wait to get it ready and SHARE it-**

**Also, there are many excuses for my long-ass absence, only one of which has to be said: I'm a complete newbie, as in my last longfic was about my original warriors clan and fuck I wanted to forget that. Either way, it did my confidence and English skills (I'm no native speaker) a great service to rehash the early chaps a little.**


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